A Twist In Time
by TVRacer
Summary: The A-Team meets up with two ghosts from their past. One is seeking their help; the other bears shocking information - the A-Team is going to meet a horrible fate, beginning with the death of Hannibal, unless a certain scientist can find a way to change history for the better. Will the A-Team survive and save their country? Read with pictures at tinyurl . com /ATwistInTime
1. Trailer

**Author's Notes:** This trailer was written in screenplay format.

**Technical Note:** For those who are unfamiliar with the term, a Smash Cut is a jarring, sudden transition between two scenes. It is commonly used when going from the opening gambit of a series to the credits (i.e. ER, etc).

**Disclaimer:** The characters and series involved are the property of their creators, Stephen J. Cannell and Donald P. Bellisario. This fanfiction was written to promote both series, not for profit; no copyright infringement is intended.

**A TWIST IN TIME TEASER**

FADE IN

The sun begins to peek over the San Andreas mountains, as the sleeping city of Los Angeles, California sits in the foreground. A light smog covers the area like a blanket, refracting the rays of sunlight to where the morning sky seems like it's on fire, filled with gorgeous shades of red, orange, and yellow . . . perhaps a foreshadowing of what was to come.

A beautiful, but haunting, instrumental piece of music plays in the background as we hear . . .

ANNOUNCER

The world is full of choices . . .

FLASH TO WHITE

ANNOUNCER

Love . . .

John "Hannibal" Smith is in the background, embracing a female in the foreground. Despite his toughness, his ice blue eyes look as if they are about to tear up from the emotion at the reunion. There is an overwhelming look of joy on his face. A reverse angle reveals Margaret Olivia Sullivan, who smiles back at Hannibal and looks at him longingly.

DISSOLVE TO

A female is in the background, her back is facing us. We can see her wavy brown hair, but her face is not visible. Despite this, there is something about her that seems very familiar. An arm is wrapped around her shoulders. As our eyes follow the arm, we see Templeton Peck over her shoulder. He is kissing her passionately on the lips.

FLASH TO WHITE

ANNOUNCER

Life . . .

Children of various racial backgrounds are gathered around the muscular BA Baracus. He sits outside the youth center on an overturned plastic drum. They are in awe as they watch him demonstrate how to make a craft. A rare smile can be seen upon the lips of the gentle giant, glittering as brightly as his highly polished gold that dangles around his neck.

DISSOLVE TO

A close shot of Hannibal shows him in all of his glory. His silver-white hair seems to gleam, and his ice blue eyes are captivating. They appear as if they twinkle brightly, reflecting the smile that rests upon his face. As the camera widens out, we can see the rest of the A-Team. The expression on their faces indicate that they are sharing in the Jazz along with their leader.

FLASH TO WHITE

ANNOUNCER

And death.

The distinct sound of a gunshot is heard as we . . .

DISSOLVE TO

Hannibal is on his back in a parking lot. He is not moving and, from the distance, it looks as if he may have been knocked out. As the camera pushes in, we see a large pool of blood surrounding the shoulders, neck, and head of the A-Team leader. Red has intermingled with and stained his stunning silver-white hair. Closer yet, and we can see the source of the blood . . . a wound on the Colonel's neck that has pierced the trachea and severed the jugular vein. Hannibal's ice-blue eyes are still open, frozen in a death pall as we . . .

FLASH TO WHITE

The camera pushes through a murky scene. Particles and debris seem to float weightlessly in this underwater realm, a sign that something foreign is now within these waters. Further still and the cockpit of a jet starts to come into view. The glass of the canopy is still solid, uncracked . . . and there are hands pressed up against it. As the camera moves in closer, we can see that the hand belongs to H. M. Murdock, who is trapped inside. The interior of the cockpit is filled with water and, from the look on Murdock's face, he has been holding his breath for a long time . . . almost too long. Murdock's dark eyes are filled with fear, even panic as he realizes that there is no way out. After a beat, Murdock's eyes roll into the back of his head as his hand falls limply from the surface of the glass, floating in the water-filled cockpit. The last of the life giving oxygen that had been in Murdock's lungs escapes his lips, rising upward . . . almost as if carrying Murdock's condemned soul with it.

FLASH TO WHITE

Hold a beat as we hear . . .

ANNOUNCER

But what if fate gave you a

second chance?

DISSOLVE TO

Templeton Peck sits in cabin seat on the passenger side of the A-Team van, next to the sliding door. He is wearing a tasteful brown suit with a white shirt and complimenting tie. His hair is impeccably groomed and there is a hint of a smile on his face. Hold a beat before he is encompassed by an aura of blue light that seems alive with electricity. At the peak of the light's brilliance, we . . .

SMASH CUT TO

A montage of images fill the screen, in sync with the increased beat and power of the music. A series of fast paced cuts shows us:

The camera is focused on the right rear wheel well of the A-Team van as the tire spins wildly. Using telephoto compression, our eyes follow the fender backwards until our view rests upon the pursuing dark green military police sedans that seem to be right on the back bumper of the van.

The waters of a lake can be seen, the reflection of the sunlight gently dancing across the surface. After a beat, a green, scaly creature emerges from the depths, making its way ominously towards shore.

BA lands a solid jab on an equally sized and matched opponent, sending him reeling backwards. He stumbles and collapses through a pile of crates, leaving only splintered wood in its place.

A tight, static shot of a mountainous road seems peaceful, relaxing. That quiet calm is disturbed when a white Corvette with a red racing stripe skids into view. Templeton Peck can be seen clearly behind the wheel, and in the passenger seat is the Aquamaniac . . . the head of the costume sticking out past the removed top of the corvette. As the Vette slides out of frame, three military police sedans skid into view as they try to keep up.

Trees seem to fly by as we look down the passenger side of the A-Team van, focusing mainly towards the front. It is obviously traveling at a high rate of speed. After a beat, Hannibal emerges from the passenger window with a silver, 9mm pistol in his gloved hand. The wind whips through his silver-white hair as he fires a shot.

Smoke and flame spew from the engines of a Mig 29 as it struggles to stay aloft. It streaks through the air, the ground quickly approaching as it is losing the fight to maintain altitude. Trees seem to rise in the background as the jet fighter approaches a lake.

ANNOUNCER

Turn back the clock.

SMASH CUT TO

The music comes to an abrupt ending, almost as if someone slammed a door shut, as blackness fills the screen. White letters from the title fades into view. Again, the blue aura is visible, surrounding the letters as streaks of white lightning crackle and dance through the color.

ANNOUNCER

A Twist In Time

(beat)

Coming soon to a fanfic list

near you.

Continue to hold on the title as we hear . . .

HANNIBAL (V. O.)

I love it when a plan comes

together.

FADE OUT

**END OF TEASER**


	2. Prologue

_Look to this day,_

_For yesterday is but a dream_

_And tomorrow's but a vision;_

_But today well lived makes every yesterday a dream of happiness,_

_And every tomorrow a vision of hope._

_- Face, "Family Reunion"_

* * *

_On the wheel of life we all go around we are many people at many times._

_- Jack Kerouac, "Rebel Without a Clue"_

**Prologue**

A brilliant blue-white light filled the area, yet went unseen by the others nearby. The nimbus of electrical energy faded from around his body. He instinctively looked around, hoping that he would see some clues that might help him figure out who he was or why he had Leaped into his current host.

His name was Sam Beckett, holder of seven doctorates, winner of a Nobel Prize, and creator of the top secret project named Quantum Leap. He had been pressured to prove that his theories in time travel worked or lose funding, so he prematurely stepped into the Accelerator. Even though he was successful, the program intended to bring him back to his own time had not been completed. Plus something had gone wrong . . . instead of Leaping into his own life as he had hoped would have happened, he was Leaping into the lives of others, limited by his own lifetime.

If there was one thing that he dreaded about Leaping about in time, it was the beginning of a Leap. It was at that point when he knew nothing about who his host was or why he was there. What made it worse was when others were around him, capable of tripping him up with a simple question, or he found himself in the middle of an undesirable situation.

The memory of one such occasion came to the front of his mind . . . a Leap when a little boy was eager to go buy some candy at the local pharmacy and had asked Sam for permission to go. That same boy, who found himself in the right place at the wrong time, witnessed a murder and almost became the next victim. Sam pushed that terrifying recollection out of his mind, trying to focus on the task at hand.

He was within a vehicle . . . a van, from all appearances, with a light gray interior. A CB radio was mounted overhead in between the two front seats, and a car phone was built into the main console near the AM/FM cassette radio. He was sitting in a comfortable cabin seat on the passenger side in the back, and couldn't help but to notice the three other occupants.

The person in the seat to his left wore a brown bomber jacket with a tiger on the back, tan slacks, a bright blue shirt with a red arrow pointing upward and some lettering on it, a checkered red flannel shirt that was unbuttoned but tucked in around the belt, and a dark blue baseball cap. His brown hair was somewhat thin, although stretched down to the nape of his neck. He kept shifting between leaning forward and then sitting back in his seat, almost as if he was either excited or anxious.

The man in the seat in front of him wore a light tan jacket, black jeans, and a light blue shirt. He had black leather gloves on and held a cigar in one of his hands. He hadn't seen the person's face yet, but if it wasn't for the silver-white hair and the conservative clothing, Sam probably would have thought that it was Al.

The driver of the van was perhaps the most bizarre. He was a big African American male who boasted a mohawk with a beard and mustache. Just the sight of his build alone was enough to practically strike terror within anyone who saw him. The thing that sold it was the bib overall jeans, the red tank top worn underneath, and the mass of gold chains dangling from around his neck.

Sam looked down at his own clothing . . . a brown two-piece suit with a white shirt and matching brown tie. Even the shoes looked to be fairly expensive and well polished. He wasn't in a position to where he could see a mirror and look at the reflection in it . . . the face of the individual he had Leaped into. Until that opportunity came about, he would have to ride it out for now.

From the sound of the engine as well as the whir from the tires, the time traveler could tell that the van was traveling at a high rate of speed even without having to look out the front windshield. The wail of sirens from behind him indicated that they were being chased . . . but why?

"Man, the Army must be gettin' better drivers. They're stickin' to us like glue," the driver said in a gruff tone, almost allowing a crack of worry seep into his voice.

"Decker certainly tries. You have to give him that much," the male in the tan jacket noted, adding a touch of a laugh on the end.

He raised his eyebrow curiously, wondering why the white-haired individual took what appeared to be a serious situation lightly. The quantum physicist didn't know who these individuals were, but they were being chased . . . for God knew what, and were probably going to be captured. Yet the older male seemed to be entertained by that idea.

The eyes of the male in the bomber jacket almost seemed to light up as he leaned forward, but the driver just shook his head ominously as he mumbled, "He's on the Jazz again."

All the Nobel Prize winner could sputter was, "Oh, boy."


	3. Chapter 1: Arrivals

_Time is a fine story teller, and history a fond student._

_- Hannibal, "The Big Squeeze"_

* * *

_Couldn't you give them name tags?_

_- Sam (glancing heavenward), "How the Tess was Won"_

**Chapter 1: Arrivals**

MONDAY, MAY 12, 1986

CEDAR GLEN, CALIFORNIA

3:30PM PACIFIC TIME

_Leaping around in time, I often found myself in my fair share of unusual situations. I had been shot at several times, dangling from a trapeze, strapped in an electric chair . . . but never had I found myself trying to outrun law enforcement agents, especially ones from the Army. I only hoped that we wouldn't get caught before I had the chance to do what was necessary to fix history and Leap out._

"Things are never as bad as they seem to be," the white-haired male said with another light laugh, almost to where he seemed amused by the events that were currently unfolding.

"Yeah . . . it's usually worse," Sam commented about his Leaps in a low mutter, not thinking that he was overheard. He certainly had his fair share of difficult situations, especially when first starting out on a Leap and not knowing what he was getting into right away . . . and this seemed to rank right up there.

"Faceman . . . where's your sense of adventure, muchacho?" the guy in the bomber jacket started to ask in a Texan drawl. He glanced over at the spot where he thought his teammate was, his eyes widening in shock. "Y-You're not Face . . ."

Sam tried to maintain a neutral and calm expression even though the first thoughts that entered into his mind was, 'Oh boy . . .' And Faceman? Was he referring to the person he had Leaped into? It was a probability, based on what was happening.

"What ya talkin' about fool? Face is sittin' there right next to you," the burly driver blasted, much to Sam's relief.

"He's not BA. It's weird . . . he's wearing Face's clothes, but he isn't the Faceman," the individual sitting next to the time traveler persisted, much to Sam's dismay. If he persisted, chances were that things were going to go very badly, very quickly.

"Hannibal . . ." the driver started, anger definitely welling up within his tone. Based on how the driver looked, or at least from what Sam was able to see, he certainly didn't seem like someone you wanted to get mad at you or he'd probably make you regret it.

"I'm tellin' ya, the guy next to me ain't Face!" the guy with the baseball cap and bomber jacket insisted, raising his voice a bit more almost as if he was getting annoyed with the fact that the two in the front of the van didn't believe him.

"Cool it, Murdock. Let BA concentrate on getting us away from Decker first. Then you can tell us about the guy you think is sitting where Face is, or about your invisible dog, Billy," the man in the tan jacket said in a firm but gentle tone.

BA . . . Sam didn't know what those initials stood for, but that seemed to be what the others called the driver. Murdock was apparently the guy sitting next to him, and Hannibal in the seat in front of him. From what he gathered within this short exchange, this Hannibal seemed to be the leader of the group. He also didn't know who this . . . Decker . . . was or why the Army was chasing them, but he was certain that he was going to find out. He just hoped that it wouldn't be the hard way.

Sam looked over in Murdock's direction, somewhat apprehensively, only to see a pout appear on the pilot's face. Could he see through the aura? It seemed like a distinct possibility based on his reaction, and he didn't seem to like being told to back off his claim.

He heard the engine roar and felt another burst of speed in the desperate attempt to escape their pursuers. The unmistakable sound of gunshots rang in his ears, originating from the cars behind them. The others within the van did not duck their heads or react to the sound, and Sam found it very hard to do the same.

"Uh, Hannibal, I think their aim is getting better," Sam commented. He could almost swear that he heard the sound of bullets whizzing by outside the walls of the van. If one of them happened to pierce one of the tires, especially at the speed they were traveling . . . that thought alone made the Nobel Prize winner shiver slightly in fear.

"I got my foot to the floor, man, and we ain't puttin' any more distance between them and us," BA added, still trying to put his full attention into driving. Truthfully, a small amount of concern was creeping into his gruff tone, which he couldn't totally mask from the others.

"Relax guys. Decker could never catch us." Hannibal noted confidently, taking a puff on his cigar with a blissful look on his face. He seemed certain of their escape, even though they were still being chased. It was almost as if he relished in the idea of being chased, and getting away at the last possible moment

"Colonel, what about the time . . ." Murdock started to say, his face still contorted into a pout, only to be cut off by BA who also chimed in on the current situation.

"Yeah, sucker. Decker's caught us several times. This time, there won't be no cavalry comin' to free us since we're all in the van," BA added, knowing where the crazy man was headed with this one.

"Aw," the white-haired Colonel said, somewhat half-heartedly, almost as if disappointed that they weren't also relishing in the moment like he was. "You guys gotta do these things with style, or it isn't any fun."

"Does that style include actually getting caught by Decker?" Sam questioned, praying that wasn't the case. He had a good idea that he probably wouldn't be able to change history or Leap if he was stuck behind bars.

"Come on, Face. I thought you, of all people, understood. You make him believe that he is going to catch us, and then you slam the door in his face," Hannibal replied with a huge mischievous smile, the light tone returning just as quickly as it had faded.

Dr. Beckett watched in amazement as Hannibal pulled out a silver 9mm pistol and leaned out the driver's side window to fire his own weapon at those chasing them. Either this guy was ultra brave, incredibly lucky, or totally crazy.

There was a pop, and then a roar from behind him, a strange one that he had not heard before. That was followed by a loud crash, skidding, and a couple of more crashes. Seeing Hannibal pull back inside with a huge smile on his face, and comment, "I love it when a plan comes together," Sam could only assume that the results were good . . . at least in the sense that they could escape their pursuers.

That was a relief, but Sam had the feeling that the worst was yet to come . . .

* * *

Two Army officers climbed out from the overturned vehicle. One, an African American wearing the marks of a Captain, looked to be fairly stunned as he dusted off his cap. He was of average build with a mustache and appeared to be in his late 20s. The other, an older white male with blondish hair and the marks of a Colonel, bore a look of frustration combined with anger. His face was worn and haggard, showing the hardship of his years as well as his personality. His eyes were focused on the spot where the black and gray van had been just a moment before . . .

"How do they keep doing it, sir?" Captain Marcus Crane wondered, shaking his head at the wreckage in disbelief as he watched the other MPs climb out from the other vehicles.

"They're the best, Captain," Colonel Roderick Decker admitted as he straightened his uniform. His tone had been one of admiration and respect, perhaps even lightly laced with jealousy, for these criminals he tirelessly pursued. "Their unorthodox style made them the top commando unit in 'Nam. They had a success rate that no other unit could match up to, and that is what makes them so dangerous even now."

Another Corporal came up to the pair, holding out a green field radio that looked much like a very large cordless telephone handset with a giant antenna. "Colonel Decker, General Fulbright is on the horn and wants an update on the pursuit," the soldier reported.

Although Decker remained unphased by this news, Captain Crane almost seemed to be annoyed. This wasn't the best time to get a communication from Fulbright, especially in light of what had just happened. Crane was worried that this incident was going to force them to hang up all of their uniforms . . . for good. From what he had heard, even Fulbright had his issues with pursuing the A-Team as well.

"What are you going to tell General Fulbright?" Crane asked.

"As little as possible . . ." Decker noted quietly, his voice indicating that he clearly wasn't looking forward to the conversation that was about to come. It's not that he hadn't been chewed out before for failing to capture the A-Team, but this time was different since he had been personally put back on the case by General Fulbright himself so now he not only had someone to answer to more directly, but someone that was monitoring his performance and could make a difference in terms of his career and if he'd ever have a chance to get out of that hell hole he had been relegated to.

The Colonel took the radio from the lower ranked soldier and returned his salute, prompting the younger man to dash off. Raising the massive radio so he could talk into it, Decker started, "This is Colonel Decker . . ."

"Decker, this is General Fulbright. I want a status report," the voice came across, equally as gruff and straightforward as Decker's was.

"Sir, we were in pursuit of the A-Team and were about to apprehend them. They opened fire on us and severely damaged our vehicles. They managed to get away . . ." Decker started, about to go into the next part when he was interrupted.

"Damn it, Decker! I don't have time for your excuses! I want results! If it wasn't for the brass upstairs pressuring me to give you a second chance, you would have been rotting away the rest of your military career in Bangor, Maine!" Fulbright blasted.

"Sir, one of my men reported seeing someone with them that matched the description of Captain Murdock. If that report is true, I know exactly where the A-Team will be heading," Colonel Decker reported.

"Very well . . . I will keep you on the case for now, but I'd better see some results soon, Colonel Decker, or I will personally put you on the first plane back to that miserable flea bitten assignment!" Fulbright threatened.

"Understood sir. Decker out," Roderick said, cutting off the radio communication. The look on his face was enough to tell anyone who came within 10 yards that he was fuming to the point where he could strip some hapless soldier of their rank at the drop of a pin.

* * *

LOS ANGELES INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT (A.K.A. LAX)

LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA

A slender female with shoulder length wavy brown hair made her way through the Los Angeles International Airport. She was wearing blue jeans, a white blouse, and carrying nothing more than a brown leather tote bag. From the pace at which she was walking, it was obvious that she was in a hurry.

The flight had been long and exhausting, but she had no sleep. She couldn't take the chance of dozing off and having someone rummage through her belongings, or finding herself looking down the barrel of a gun, forced to cooperate against her will. Even now, she could not stop and let her guard down for an instant.

Her instincts told her that she was being followed, and a quick glance over her shoulder confirmed it. A suspicious male with sandy blonde hair, wearing sunglasses and a dark suit, was following from a distance. He had been doing so ever since she got off the plane. She could only speculate who the guy worked for, but knew for certain what he was after.

After everything that had happened, she knew that she wouldn't be safe until she had returned to the States and found some old friends. They could protect her. She was certain of that, after having witnessed first-hand what they had done to help others. With how abruptly she had left, she wondered if they would even consider helping her now. Still, she knew that they were the only ones who could make the difference between life and death . . . for not only herself, but million of others.

Right now, she had to focus on trying to lose her tail so she could meet her ride, who was probably waiting for her already. Her pursuer was good, that much she had to admit, but she had also learned a few things in her time . . .

Taking a moment to look around, she spotted just what she needed . . . a people mover catwalk with metal railings that stretched over a busy street, leading to a parking lot. As he neared, she noticed that there was a sheet of plexiglass that separated the two sides, which meant that it would be impossible for someone to jump from one side to the other.

She made her way quickly to the moving catwalk and stepped onto the side that would take her to the parking lot. She had an idea forming in her mind, but it all depended on timing . . . and the crowd. Fortunately, luck seemed to be with her as a large group of people got on the walkway behind her, blocking the path of her pursuer.

Seizing the opportunity, she started to run toward the end of the catwalk. Once there, she crouched down and did a sharp u-turn, huddling against the inside railing on the mover heading in the opposite direction. She practically held her breath as she mentally calculated the point in which they would have passed each other. The moment she thought that took place, she started crawling along the conveyer on her side, praying that her pursuer would not look back before she could reach the end.

Almost like the light at the end of a tunnel, that moment came and she quickly scurried off, moving to the side and out of the line of sight. After waiting for just a moment, she sprinted towards the entrance of the airport. Stepping outside into the bright California sun, she saw a hoard of cabs waiting to whisk passengers away.

"Amy!"

She heard the voice call out, a familiar one. Looking around, she could not immediately find the source. Inwardly, she prayed that it wasn't one of her friends from the neighborhood where she used to live. A delay that kept her from her ride was the last thing that she needed right now . . . there was no telling when her pursuer would realize that she gave him the slip and backtrack.

"Amy! Over here!" the voice called again. That was followed by a quick bleat from a car horn, which drew her attention to the source.

She silently thanked her lucky stars that the voice calling her name belonged to her old colleague, who kept his word to pick her up at the airport. She wasn't quite sure what she would have done if he hadn't shown up.

Moving swiftly, she walked over and got into the brown sedan, letting out a huge sigh of relief. "Thanks Zack. Now let's get out of here, and fast."

"Sure thing," he said, slipping the car into gear and pulling away.

Zachary Goldman could be considered as a nerd, mainly because of the glasses he wore, but Amy knew better. He was one of the most brilliant men that she knew . . . a relative fountain of information. They had worked for several years at the LA Courier Express, and he was the one who gave her the details necessary to help free another friend of hers when he was being held prisoner in Mexico.

"Amy, what's going on? You jumped at the chance to be a foreign correspondent and were over there for almost two years, but now you suddenly come back. What's the deal? Jakarta and Europe not good enough for you?" he wondered, trying to break the air of silence between them.

"Those places are fine, Zack, but that's not it. I just needed to come back and get some help on something . . . that's all," she replied, hoping that he would buy the half-truth.

"Hey, research is my specialty. Remember when I gave you the info that helped you find Al?" he started, enthusiastic about the possibility of working with his friend again.

Amy was about to dismiss the idea of Zack helping her, but she realized that she could use all the background information she could get. "I remember. Listen, I'm into a really big story here that could mean the Pulitzer if it pans out. You can't tell anybody about it, especially Grant. He'd pull the plug on it before I can uncover any more proof, plus pull me off the foreign assignment for good."

"Whoa, this sounds really serious, Aim," Zack commented as he exited off the Century Freeway onto the 405 San Diego Freeway.

"It is really serious . . . and it could even be dangerous for you," she warned.

"I've been itching to get into some action since I left the Miami Herald. The closest thing I got was having to break into Massey's place when you were trying to find him," he noted.

"Okay, then first thing's first," Amy started, as she began to think of a plan. Her mind started creating a mental check list of things she needed to do, now that she was back in the States, and the order in which she needed to do it in . . . but one thing remained a priority. "I need to run an ad in the classifieds."

"I can probably slip it past Eldridge so you can run it for free, but why the ad?" Zack wondered.

A small smile appeared on Amy's face for the first time since she had arrived back in Los Angeles. "To contact some old friends . . ."


	4. Chapter 2: Unexpected Visitor

_**Yay! My first review!**_

**Sophia Hawkins: **Thank you for the kind words, Sophia!

In the Quantum Leap episode "Shock Theater," Tibby tries to point out to the staff at Havenwell Mental Hospital that the person on the bed next to him isn't Sam Biederman. Instead, he sees Sam Beckett, who had just been given electric shock therapy that not only fries his brain, but causes him to start re-living some of the past lives that he had Leaped into (i.e. Samantha Stormer from "What Price Gloria", Jesse Tyler from "The Color of Truth," etc).

The staff at Havenwell think that Tibby is losing it, but Al (who Tibby can also see and hear Al and comments on his jacket, LOL) tells Tibby not to say a word or they'd really lock him up tighter. This is also the episode where Dean Stockwell does a rap to teach the mental patients the alphabet (and a variation of that rap is on the Quantum Leap soundtrack)!

Chapter 2 will show a bit of what happens behind the scenes at the Project, but you'll get your wish and see some Murdock and Al interaction in Chapter 3!

* * *

_I know you haven't proven that Dr. Beckett has traveled back in time or that if having done so he can make an impact of global importance, but it is the opinion of this committee that such heroic undertakings advance the human cause and whether or not they succeed is not so important as the fact that we tried._

_- Senator Diane McBride, "Honeymoon Express"_

* * *

_Oh boy, I hate situations like this. You go in trying to help mankind and, all of the sudden, you realize you're adjusting your halo in a two-way mirror._

_- Face, "Say it With Bullets"_

**Chapter 2: Unexpected Visitor**

TUESDAY, OCTOBER 26, 1999

PROJECT QUANTUM LEAP

STALLIONS GATE, NEW MEXICO

10:30AM MOUNTAIN TIME

Rear Admiral Albert Ernesto Giovanni Battista Calavicci mumbled words to the tune Volare, sound asleep within the bedroom adjoining his office. When it was decided that he was going to be the Project Observer, Sam had figured that they had to make accommodations since Al probably would need to spend a considerable amount of time within the complex.

"Admiral Calavicci . . ." a sultry female voice gently said.

The ex-POW didn't answer. Instead, he only tossed and turned a bit, settling down once more to continue his sleep. That prompted the voice to call out again in a huffed tone, "Admiral Calavicci . . ."

Again, there was no response. After a moment, the strains of the song reveille piped into the room. The startled Observer bolted upright in his bed, now wide awake. In his training, even the Navy had used that to wake cadets in the morning.

"I'm up . . . I'm up! Shut that damned stuff off, Ziggy!" Al roared.

The song ended abruptly as the parallel hybrid computer said, "I apologize, Admiral, but my other attempts to arouse you from your slumber proved unsuccessful."

The Project administrator grumbled as he got up from his bed, stretched, and walked over to the sink to splash a bit of cold water on his face. He grabbed a towel to dry himself off and grumbled, "Yeah, well I hope you have a damned good reason."

"I do have a very valid reason, if you would allow me the chance to explain," the computer replied, almost sulking.

"Cut to the chase, Ziggy," Al demanded, not in the mood for games after his rude wake up call. He knew that the parallel hybrid computer could sometimes be very temperamental, so he had to be careful with what he said around Ziggy from time to time. The last thing he needed was for the computer to pitch a fit, right when he needed info from Ziggy the most.

"We have an arrival in the Waiting Room, and Senator McBride wishes to meet with you. She has already checked in with the guards at the front gate."

Al cursed under his breath. With everything that had been going on of lately, he hadn't expected a surprise visit from Senator Diane McBride, chairperson for the committee that annually reviewed the funding for the Project. She had become perhaps the biggest proponent for Quantum Leap, as well as its biggest confidant after she made the realization that Sam Beckett had saved her. She would not have earned her position had the Nobel Prize winner not taken that initial Leap back in time or landed in her husband . . . heck, she probably would not have been alive if it wasn't for him.

Even though she was a married woman, Al felt it necessary to try and make a good impression on the Senator. "Is Dr. Beeks with the Visitor?" the Rear Admiral asked as he pulled out his dress white uniform.

"Dr. Beeks is monitoring the Visitor, but he has not yet regained consciousness," the computer informed him.

"Do you have any information on who Sam Leaped into or have a lock on him yet?" the Apollo astronaut wondered, slipping on his uniform slacks.

"Until the Visitor regains consciousness, I am unable to, at this early point, ascertain who in time Dr. Beckett currently is or extrapolate what he needs to accomplish before he can Leap. My father did not have the foresight to program me to be a mind reader. Even if he had managed that impressive feat, I am unable to establish a lock on Dr. Beckett until you have entered the Imaging Chamber," the sultry female voice explained, much to Al's dissatisfaction. The entire project had cost over $43 billion to build, and more than a third of those funds were allocated to building the hybrid parallel computer, so Al figured that it should have been smart enough to get that information without having to rely on the initial interviews with the Visitor.

"Okay . . . contact me the moment the Visitor wakes up. I'm going to go upstairs and meet with Senator McBride," the Rear Admiral advised, already buttoning up his jacket that was decorated with all of his medals and awards. At least it was Senator Diane McBride meeting with him and not Senator Joe Weitzman . . .

* * *

WAITING ROOM

PROJECT QUANTUM LEAP

STALLIONS GATE, NEW MEXICO

He was groggy when he woke up, and very confused. The last thing he had remembered was being in a van with his friends, and they were running away from . . . from . . .

'Damn it! Why can't I remember?' he thought to himself, starting to get very frustrated.

He looked around, surprised to see that his surroundings were totally different. He was in a blue room, on some sort of examination table. His clothes were different . . . he now found himself in some sort of skin-tight, one-piece, white bodysuit instead of the two-piece suit and tie he had donned that morning. Even his feet were completely bare.

"Oh no, that was a $400 suit too . . ." he whined, hating to lose any of his suits. They were essential to maintaining the air of high-class society that he tried to portray, as well as winning others over.

Inwardly, he wondered if this was what . . . what Murdock went through each time he had to go back in to the mental ward of the VA hospital. Perhaps this was a practical joke that his friends were trying to pull on him, but the longer this drew out, the more he began to doubt that notion and start believing that he was perhaps a prisoner . . .

He didn't see any doors or door handles, but there had to be a way into and out of the room. Whoever stuck him in here wouldn't have been able to do so unless there was some kind of a doorway . . . somewhere. If there were any doors, the lack of any handles likely meant that they were probably locked from the outside. That only further convinced him that he was being held against his will. Considering how hard it was for him to even recall simple information that he normally knew, especially names, he tended to wonder if he had been drugged.

The sound of a pneumatic hiss filled the room and drew his attention as an entryway appeared within what seemed like a solid wall. So, there was a door after all, just like he thought, but not one that was clearly visible. Looking up at the doorway that had appeared, he watched a black female enter. She was wearing a fluorescent blue pantsuit, complimented by fluorescent pink shoes, belt, and a scarf that was folded in a triangle and draped neatly over her left shoulder, held down by a pin that seemed to glow. Even her ear rings lit up . . .

"Where am I? What's going on?" the Visitor demanded.

"Don't worry . . . I'm not going to harm you. My name is Verbena Beeks. What's yours?" she asked, trying to make conversation and get the essentials she knew that Ziggy needed to research the various options.

"Am I a prisoner?" he pointedly wondered, seeming tense and on guard, as if he was waiting for someone to pull a gun on him or put him in handcuffs.

"No . . . not exactly . . ." Verbena started to say, immediately noticing his defensive posture and tone of voice. Did his question mean that he was afraid of being in jail? And if it did, why was he so afraid of being imprisoned?

"Not exactly?" he parroted, turning it around into a question, the frustration starting to seep into the tone of his voice. What was his name? He always came up with a plan, and he hated how sometimes that plan wasn't shared right away. Granted, they usually worked out, but still . . . it frustrated him to no end when he had no idea of what was going on.

Interviewing the Visitor was always the hardest part for Verbena. To her, the Visitor looked exactly like Dr. Samuel Beckett, the brilliant quantum physicist and Nobel Prize winner who was her boss and employer. It was difficult for her . . . knowing where Sam Beckett ended, and the persona of the Visitor began.

"This isn't a prison or jail. You were unconscious when you arrived, so we brought you here for . . . medical observation," Dr. Beeks told him, which wasn't too far from the truth. Leaping through time sometimes took a significant toll on the individual, both physically as well as psychologically, so a lot of those who ended up in the Waiting Room were initially unconscious or lapsed into that state once they realized the sudden change in their location.

"So, I'm free to leave if I want to," he assumed based on her response, still trying to find some way out of this just in case it wasn't what she said. He didn't want to stay here any longer than he had to, although he couldn't remember exactly why. It was just the need to get out of there that was so instinctual, so strong . . .

"Well, not really. We'd like to keep you here for a while, just to make sure that you're okay," she gently reaffirmed, trying to make him aware that she was genuinely concerned about his well being.

"I'm not buying it. I know a scam when I hear one. I'm not telling you anything until I speak to the person in charge," the Visitor told her, folding his arms to indicate that he wasn't about to budge on the matter.

The Project psychiatrist knew when to back off . . . when it was impossible to get through to a person. She knew that Ziggy needed information from the Visitor so the computer could locate Dr. Beckett in time, thus establishing communication. Right now, the only way it appeared she might get that data was to do as the Visitor requested. She had to get Admiral Calavicci down here.

"Okay, I'll go get the person in charge. In the meantime, do you want anything to eat or drink?" she offered, hoping that maybe she could still get some kind of a breakthrough with the Visitor through a gesture of kindness.

"How about a telephone and the key to get out of this room?" he quipped while flashing grin, trying to turn on the charm and hoping she would give in to his request. If he could just get out of this room, then maybe . . . just maybe . . . he could find out what was going on.

To a certain degree, she could see right through him . . . almost a mirror image of Al. She had to refrain from cracking a smile at the line he had fed to her. "Sorry, but I can't help you on that one," she replied earnestly, taking that opportunity to exit the room before any damage could be done, or before he could talk her into something she wasn't able to provide.

"Ziggy . . ." the psychiatrist spoke into the air.

"Yes, Dr. Beeks?" a sultry female voice replied in it's usual heavy tone.

"Contact Admiral Calavicci and inform him that his presence is requested here on the double," Verbena told the hybrid computer.

* * *

VISITOR'S AREA

PROJECT QUANTUM LEAP

STALLIONS GATE, NEW MEXICO

Al tugged on the bottom of his dress jacket to straighten it, and then stepped into the guest center at the Project. It was a plain room with a few chairs, some light, and a table, but definitely a far cry from some of the rest of the furnishings within the lower sections of the complex.

She was just how he had remembered when Sam had changed history, helping her to pass her bar exam which propelled her into her current seat as Senator and chair of the committee that annually reviewed the funding for Quantum Leap . . . 40 years older than the woman Sam had to protect when he Leaped into her husband, but just as beautiful. "Senator McBride, it's a pleasure to see you again," he greeted her, extending his hand to shake hers.

"Diane, please . . . we've known each other too long in working on the funding for this Project to revert to formal titles when we're not in a committee review, Al," she replied with a warm smile, returning the handshake.

'Damn, she is good,' Al thought to himself, smiling. She was right . . . 10 years ago was when Al Calavicci approached the government on behalf of Dr. Samuel Beckett to propose a project based on his theories and request funding for it. Although Dr. Donna Elesee now represented the Project at most of the committee meetings these days, there was still an occasional time where Al had to be there in person and continue to go to bat to make sure that funding wasn't cut off, and Sam Beckett would not be lost in time forever. "If I had known you were coming, Diane, I would have prepared a reception for you," he noted.

"I was in the neighborhood inspecting another government installation when I remembered your offer for a tour of this facility. I hope I haven't come at a bad time . . ." she started to say almost apologetically.

"You could never come at a bad time. I would be honored to give you the grand tour . . . and I'm sure Ziggy would love to meet you," Al told her, the smile on his face broadening.

"Isn't Ziggy a computer? I remember seeing several pages of items dedicated to various upgrades," Diane mentioned.

"A parallel hybrid computer," he corrected as he led the way to the elevator that would carry both of them into the heart of the facility. "She's capable of tracking multiple timelines, has an ego bigger than Mount Everest, and has a special neuro microchip."

"I think I've heard about it. It's made up of brain tissue from both Dr. Beckett and yourself . . . the first of its kind. And, if I remember correctly from reading your summary, it is what allows you to contact Dr. Beckett wherever he may be in time," she rattled off, trying to recall what she could about the top secret Project.

Al looked at her with a bit of a sparkle in his eyes . . . convinced that, ever since she had figured out the truth, she really did care enough about Quantum Leap and Sam to try whatever she could to keep the funding flowing. "You do remember . . . just like you had remembered Sam after the first funding hearing."

"My memory is not photographic like Dr. Beckett's is, but I do recall a lot of things from time to time, especially when it's something that I feel passionate about," Diane replied, following the Navy Rear Admiral off the elevator.

"I'll take that as a compliment," Al said lightly with another charming smile, leading the Senator down the hallway. "The first couple of floors of the Project are set up for living space and general offices for most of our staff. Not everyone lives here at the complex, but there are plenty of rooms available if they do need a place to stay. Also on those floors is a rec room with televisions, a pool table and other games, a cafeteria with an excellent staff of cooks, plus a work-out room with weights, various exercise equipment, and an olympic size pool. Heck, there's even a medical center with doctors, a pharmacy, and a surgery-trauma room, and electrical generators to create the power needed to keep the entire complex running should the power fail."

She heard the extensive list of living amenities that were provided for those who wished to reside at the Project as Al pointed out the various locations, her eyes wide with astonishment. "Now it's my turn to be impressed. You and Dr. Beckett thought of everything when building this facility. I can see why it cost $43 billion to construct this place."

The former astronaut was about to show the senator his office when a sultry female voice pierced the air, seemingly coming from everywhere and nowhere at once. "I hate to interrupt your tour Admiral, but Dr. Beeks is requesting your presence in her office."

"What was that, Al?" Diane asked, stunned to hear a voice without seeing a body.

"That was Ziggy . . . the computer I was telling you about," he said to her. He then announced into the air, "Is there a problem, Ziggy?"

"The Visitor has regained consciousness, but Dr. Beeks has been unsuccessful in her attempts to gain the information required to determine who Dr. Beckett has Leaped into," the sexy voice announced.

That obviously wasn't something that the Project Administrator wanted to hear, although he tried hard to keep his composure in front of Diane. He didn't need her knowing that he wasn't too happy right about now. "Inform Verbena that we'll be there in a few minutes," Al spoke into the air, and then turned to his guest about ready to apologize.

"Duty calls, huh?" Diane quipped, her tone very understanding.

"Afraid so. Listen, I know I promised you the grand tour . . ." the former POW started to say apologetically. In a way, this was kind of why he didn't invite others from outside of the Project to come and visit, not even ones that had the clearance. There was no telling when Sam was going to Leap into someone, if he'd have to rush to the Imaging Chamber to fill Sam in on something important, or if he'd have to help Verbena deal with the Visitor in the Waiting Room.

"No need to apologize. I understand all too well, since the same often happens to me in my line of work," the Senator sympathized. "All of the committee meetings, things that come up at the last minute that demand your attention. It's a bit of a challenge to try and keep a balance."

"Well, if you don't mind a bit of waiting, maybe you could come down to the Control Room level with me. I was going to show that to you on the tour anyways, and it'll give you a chance to see how we work when Sam's Leaped into someone," he suggested.

"Sounds like a good idea, Al. Lead the way . . ."

* * *

CONTROL LEVEL

PROJECT QUANTUM LEAP

STALLIONS GATE, NEW MEXICO

The door to the elevator opened with a hiss, revealing a ramp that led into a large room with a strange console with multi-colored squares. A technician wearing all white with a lab coat to match stood behind it with a clipboard in hand. His brown curly hair was a bit disheveled, although his mustache was neatly groomed.

"Good afternoon Admiral, Senator McBride. Dr. Beeks is expecting you in her office," he greeted, looking up at them just for a brief moment before returning his attention to the printouts in front of him.

"Don't mind him . . . that's just Gooshie. In a way, he's kind of like Ziggy's mother, always dawdling over her and making sure that there's no problems. Just don't get too close or your nose might regret it," Al told Diane with a bit of a grin as he ushered her up another ramp to the Observation Area.

The look on her face clearly indicated that she had no idea what he was talking about with that comment towards one of his co-workers . . . although she was probably certain that she would find out. The thing that drew her short of asking about that was the sight of the Waiting Room through the one-way glass . . . and her first real look of Dr. Samuel Beckett.

"Is that . . .?" Diane started to ask, almost at a loss for words. She had met Dr. Beckett only once during the initial funding request for the Project . . . before he Leaped and Senator Joe Weitzman insisted on annual reviews of the funding.

"Yes and no. What you are seeing is the aura of Sam Beckett, almost like some kind of a metaphysical shell. If you were to compare an EEG from Sam to the person in that Waiting Room, you would see that they're totally different. If you were to go in there and talk to him, even the answers he would give you would be totally different," Al explained.

This made the Senator very curious, since she was still trying to fathom how exactly everything worked. "If Dr. Beckett has a different aura when he's in the past, then how do you know that it's him when you make contact?" she wondered.

"Most of us were outfitted with implants for security purposes. Gooshie found a way to have Ziggy modify the programming on mine. It works with my brain waves, allowing me to see Sam for himself when I contact him, and the person in the Waiting Room as themselves. Until Gooshie made that modification, the first Leaps were rough, especially when Sam Leaped into a woman . . ." the Rear Admiral admitted, trailing off at the end almost as if he was reminiscing a fantasy of pleasure.

"You should have seen him on that one, Senator. He could hardly keep his eyes from popping out of his head whenever he looked at Dr. Beckett within the Imaging Chamber. I'm Dr. Verbena Beeks, Project psychiatrist," an African American female said as she emerged from another door.

There was a look of amusement on the face of Senator McBride, who had heard long time ago about the womanizing Albert Calavicci. He had yet to disappoint . . . "Good to meet you."

"Sure, you had to tell her that part," Al quipped playfully. "So what's the deal with our Visitor in there?"

"He's a tough one, Admiral. He refused to tell me anything, no matter how much I tried. He says that he'll only talk to the person in charge," the psychiatrist noted. Her tone made it clear that Al was going to be the one who needed to go in there and get the information for Ziggy to start making projections on what Sam needed to do.

"You couldn't get him to talk?" the Naval pilot asked in astonishment. That was a definite first, since most Visitors had no problem opening up and sharing what they could remember about their lives with the gentle psychiatrist. "You're loosing your touch Beeksie."

"Or maybe not. I was able to pick up a couple of things based on the little he had said. First, he seems to be concerned with the fact that he might be imprisoned, which is an indication that he could be wanted by law enforcement agencies," she began to explain, only to be cut off by Al.

"Wanted by law enforcement? Great, just what we need . . . another Leon Styles," he muttered. Inwardly, he hoped that they would be able to contain the Visitor this time around a lot better than what happened with Leon, and also that Diane wouldn't ask about what happened.

Not missing a beat, and ignoring Al's comment, Verbena continued, "Second, he seems to have a genuine respect for authority. Third, he's a bit of a charmer, probably even more than you when you were in your prime, Admiral."

"Hey, I'm always in my prime," Al countered with a sly grin. "I'll be right back, Diane. Bena can turn on the microphones within the room so you can listen in on the conversation."

The Navy Rear Admiral walked into the Waiting Room with an air of authority about him, immediately laying eyes on the Visitor. Instead of the aura of Dr. Samuel Beckett, his best friend who was trapped in time, he saw a white male who was a bit younger with well groomed dark sandy blonde hair with natural golden highlights. Although he couldn't place a finger on it, somehow this person looked vaguely familiar . . .

Seeing a uniformed officer enter the room, especially one with a much higher rank than him, the Leapee immediately snapped to attention and offered a salute. 'Definitely military,' Al thought to himself as he returned the salute. "At ease. What's your name, rank and serial number, son?"

"Peck, Templeton . . . 1st Lieutenant, US Army . . . serial number 413624B," he replied, relaxing his stance slightly. He couldn't place why, but the person that stood before him . . . the guy in charge . . . there was just something about him that put him at ease, and eliminated any thought that there was some kind of a possible threat against him.

Al was overwhelmed with shock upon hearing that name, one from his past in Vietnam and had crossed his desk on several occasions. He tried hard to keep the look on his face stoic and authoritative. Clearing his throat in an attempt to regain his composure, he announced flatly, "I'm Admiral Calavicci, the person in charge of this complex. I hear you wanted to speak with me, Lieutenant."

"I'd like to know what is going on here, Admiral. Am I a prisoner?" Templeton asked, inwardly thankful that someone with some kind of rank or authority showed up to possibly answer his questions.

"If you mean if you're under arrest, no," the former POW started to say, not able to get much further before being interrupted.

"Then I can leave . . ." Peck assumed. Even though there was something familiar about this guy, there was still the inherent and instinctual need to leave, even though he still didn't know why. It was almost like a distant fog at the back of his memory, which refused to clear.

"I'm afraid we can't let you do that . . . for your own safety, among other reasons," Al stressed, trying hard not to reveal too much since he didn't want to overwhelm him too soon and end up with a catatonic Leapee . . . someone who couldn't provide any details that may be needed to help Sam.

"Admiral, if I'm not under arrest but I can't leave here, will you at least please tell me what is going on?" the Army Lieutenant pleaded, starting to sound really frustrated due to all of the confusion. His voice betrayed him and indicated the anxiety with needing to leave.

"You happened to wander into a top secret instillation. Unless you have proper clearance, I can't tell you much more than that because it's classified," Al replied firmly. The silence between the two of them was enough to tell the Apollo astronaut his answer. "But, we could use answers to some of our own questions. First, do you remember what the date is?"

"May 12, 1986," Templeton replied, not thinking that there could be any danger in revealing the date.

"And what was the last thing you remember before waking up here?" Al wondered, hoping to get a bit more info that could help figure out what Sam had ended up in the middle of.

"I was in a van with my, uh, associates. I'm not sure why, but I can't remember their names or what we were doing. Why am I having problems remembering things?" Lt. Peck said, turning his answer around into another question.

"That's a side effect, probably traumatic shock from Le . . " Al started to say, quickly catching himself before he could make a major error. "From being caught, but there's nothing to worry about. We conducted some examinations to make sure that everything was okay. The gaps in your memory will fill in time. I have to go check on another situation, but I'll be back in a while. Dr. Beeks will probably want to talk to you as well." Inwardly, Al hoped that Templeton would be more accepting of Verbena's conversation this time around.

"Do you have any cute nurses you could send in to keep me company?" the Visitor asked with a bit of a boyish grin, trying to turn on the charm. At least if there was a woman or two, it would certainly help him pass the time a lot faster . . . and in so many ways!

"I'll see what we can do," Al replied, and then exited the Waiting Room. The moment he saw Verbena, he gave her a coy grin. "He's all ready for you. Time to work your magic, Beeksie."

"You know what I do doesn't have anything to do with magic, Admiral," Verbena replied earnestly, and then disappeared into the Waiting Room.

Diane McBride had watched and listened to the whole conversation, and was clearly stunned at the answers that was given by the person currently within the Waiting Room. "Al, that was incredible! That person looks exactly like Dr. Beckett, who's never served in the military, but his answers and actions indicate that he has," she expressed.

"I know. It was pretty hard for me the first few times until Ziggy made that modification to my implant. But, the job isn't done yet. I have to go into the Imaging Chamber and tell Sam what we've come up with. I can have Gooshie set you up at a video screen, and Ziggy can project what I see in the Imaging Chamber on there," the Navy Rear Admiral suggested.

"I can't go in there with you?" Senator McBride wondered, hoping that maybe she could get a chance to meet Sam Beckett . . . where ever he was in time . . . and personally thank him for saving her life.

"You could, but you wouldn't be able to see anything except for a big room with me talking to thin air," he revealed. "I might be able to set something up for later on, but the last time we did it, it drew so much power that we could light up all of St. Louis for a month!"

"If you could, I would like that. I would like to personally thank Sam for what he did to help me," Diane replied with an understanding smile as the two of them walked back into the Control Room.


	5. Chapter 3: Shared History

**Evenmoor:** You'd actually be surprised with what Sam can remember at times! He can remember some info from previous Leaps without a problem, in spite of his swiss-cheesed memory, and other times he needs some prompting.

**Sophia Hawkins:** Face's memory is pretty swiss-cheesed right now, although some of the holes will fill with time. He doesn't know what happened in the original history because, in his timeline, it would have happened a few days from the point where Sam took his place - so technically, he hasn't gone through it yet. Dr. Beeks would have to do a lot of work with Face to prepare him so he could handle the news if Al were to share it with him.

* * *

_Well, why don't you make up your mind? First, I'm crazy, then I'm not. Then I'm crazy, then I'm not. She loves me, she loves me not._

_- Murdock, "The Beast From the Belly of a Boeing"_

* * *

_This is great, I'm tuned in to little kids, I'm tuned in to animals, and now the mentally absent. Why not blondes?_

_- Al, "Shock Theater"_

**Chapter 3: Shared History**

MONDAY, MAY 12, 1986

WESTWOOD

LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA

5:30PM PACIFIC TIME

"Man, Decker almost had us back there," BA said grimly. Although there was clearly a tone of relief within his voice, there was also a hint of frustration, if not anger as well. It seemed as if he certainly didn't like being chased by this guy . . . this Decker . . . than Sam felt right now.

"Relax, BA. We got away from them," Hannibal said confidently, their recent brush with the MPs not even phasing him in the slightest. "Right now, we need to take Murdock back to the VA. Face, do you still have that lab coat?"

Murdock looked almost like he was beside himself. "C'mon guys, this ain't Facey," he stressed again, hoping that someone would believe him . . . even Hannibal. The Colonel usually could tell the difference between when he was goofing around and when he was being serious, which added to the pilot's frustration with how they didn't seem to believe him.

Sam looked around, totally stumped, but silently praying that they didn't give too much credence to Murdock's claims . . . at least not yet. Out of the corner of his eye, in the back of the van, he spotted the white fabric of the coat most doctors wore while on duty. It was something he had worn himself at one time, although he wondered why such a coat would be doing in a van with these guys. "Uh, yeah. It's right back here."

"Slip it on . . . you're going to have to bust Murdock back in there," the white-haired gentleman ordered.

"Me?" Sam questioned, totally stunned by that directive from what seemed to be the leader among the men that were assembled within the van, and completely unsure of what was required of him.

"Since you were the one who sprung Murdock, they won't ask too many questions if you use that same line you pulled on them to get him back in. If Murdock just walks in by himself one too many times, they'll get suspicious and increase security, making it harder for us to bust him out the next time we need him," Hannibal reasoned.

Instead of replying, Sam obediently slipped on the coat. This Murdock guy in the bomber jacket seemed to see Sam for himself based on how he kept insisting that he wasn't this Face guy, and he was afraid that he would blow it or Murdock would persist if he had said any more. His thoughts raced as he tried to think of some way to deal with this situation . . . on how to get out of this mess if he had to, but one thing kept coming to the forefront. Where was Al?

"But Hannibal . . ." Murdock started to say, his tone reminding Sam of when he was a kid and he continued to try and ask about something even after his parents had told him no.

"Sorry, Captain," Hannibal began to say, looking out the passenger side window as he spotted the front doors to the building that housed the psychiatric ward. "You know as well as I do that if you're gone from the VA for too long, they'll tighten up security and it'll be harder to get you out when we need you."

The quantum physicist felt the van come to a halt. Instinctively, Sam slid the door open and viewed the massive building with a grass on either side of the sidewalk that served as the entrance. He got out of the van and watched as the guy in the bomber jacket did the same, although somewhat somberly, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his khaki pants. If he was pouting before, now it seemed like he was really sulking. Seeing that, he got the impression that this Murdock didn't like being institutionalized within a VA hospital, away from his friends until there was the need to bust him out for another mission.

As soon as they both disappeared through the main doors to the VA, Sam heard the familiar echo of the Imaging Chamber door open. He knew that meant that his holographic friend had arrived, although he wished that he had appeared much sooner. He glanced over at Murdock to see if he had heard or seen Al's arrival, and based on the shocked look on his face, he had.

"Albert?" Murdock questioned, rubbing his eyes for a moment, somewhat unsure if the apparition in the white Naval uniform he was seeing was real or another part of his crazy mentality. "Bingo, is that really you?"

Al immediately looked up from the Handlink with his eyes bugged out, just as shocked as the person who just called his name. "Howie? You can see me?"

Even the quantum physicist was clearly stunned by the exchange, looking from Al to Murdock and then back again. "Al, he can see you . . . and you know him?"

"Hey, the big guy doesn't call me a crazy fool for nothing," Murdock said with an innocent smile, shrugging his shoulders almost as if he wasn't thinking much about the presumed insanity.

Sam's original question was not lost on the Observer's mind as he turned to him and answered, his smile brightening as he began to relate, "Yeah, of course I know him. I flew in the Navy, and Howlin' Mad Murdock here was the best pilot in the Army. He and I met in the DOOM Club in Da Nang, which is where we became pretty good buds. Since he was Special Forces, we ran a few aerial missions together."

Murdock knew exactly what Al had meant by that and grinned. "Yeah. I'd have to do a bug out from a hot LZ since I was the only one that could keep my bird in the air, even when she was shot full of holes, and then I'd vector you in for a napalm strike as soon as we lifted off."

"And sometimes you barely got off the ground before I had to light up the place," Al added, the conversation flowing freely with Murdock almost as if the years that separated them hadn't happened at all. "Those were the days, weren't they, Howie?"

"They sure were, Al," Murdock affirmed with a quirky grin of his own. But, there was another question that nagged at him, "Where did you come from? I know it's been more than 10 years, but you look so much older from the last time that I saw you. And what's with the uniform? I hadn't heard much about what's been going on with you since you got repatriated."

"Promotion. I'm a two-star Admiral now . . . me, a guy who thought everyone above the rank of Lieutenant was a horse's ass. Kick in the butt, ain't it?" Al said somewhat jovially, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet, almost as if he was in the middle of a reunion with a long-lost brother.

Murdock suddenly had a guilty expression on his face. He and Al had become really good friends and they had promised to keep in touch with each other. His confinement within the VA mental ward made outside contact nearly impossible since his phone line was constantly monitored. Then there were those rare occasions when his unit broke him out for a mission. Unfortunately, once the mission was completed, he had to be returned to the VA . . .

Sam had observed the whole conversation between Al and Murdock, taking it in with interest. Al never really liked to talk much about his time in Vietnam, especially with being a POW, but just listening to him and Murdock talk gave a whole new insight about not only his best friend, but also his flying buddy . . . or as Al liked to call them, his tailpipe buddy. Chances were, with the way they were both talking, they'd continue to go on and on unless he could somehow change the topic of discussion. Sam discretely put a hand up to his face to cover his mouth and muttered under his breath, "Al, he can see the real me."

"Howie, who do you see standing next to you?" Al asked the Army pilot to try and confirm Sam's observation.

"A strange guy wearing the Faceman's clothes. He's got green eyes, brown hair with a little lock of white right here," he noted, demonstrating where it was above the rim of his cap, "and he definitely doesn't have the good looks that Face does."

"Thanks a lot," the Nobel Prize winner remarked sarcastically, trying hard not to roll his eyes.

"Oh boy . . ." Al murmured to himself. He knew that, since he saw Sam for who he was, he had to tell the pilot the truth. With his friend in a mental hospital, he wasn't quite sure how to explain it without sending him off the deep end. "Howie, the person here is Dr. Samuel Beckett. He created an experiment that went, well . . . a little ca-ca. He bounced into the shoes of the Faceman for a little while, and when Sam's done, Face will come back."

"BA and Hannibal saw him as Face," Murdock tried to protest, very certain of what he saw compared to how the others had reacted.

"Bi-polar disorder . . ." Sam blurted out instinctively.

"What?" the Rear Admiral questioned, trying to get his friend to expound.

"He has bi-polar disorder. It's a non-hereditary problem caused when the chemicals within the brain are off, resulting in mood swings and making seemingly sane individuals see and hear things that aren't really there. It never surfaces or is correctly diagnosed with most people, but can be set off in full force by a traumatic experience . . . like a war," the time traveler explained, pacing a bit within the entry of the VA. He then turned to Al and pointed out, "With the right prescriptions combined with psycho-therapy, it's very treatable. In the van, Hannibal had mentioned something about an invisible dog, Billy, but I didn't make the connection until just now."

"What are you, some kind of doctor?" Murdock asked in disbelief, looking at Sam almost like he was the one who was crazy and clearly surprised at that analysis that he had just delivered. The pilot had always been the one with the intellect of a genius on the Team, even though he hid it very well behind the illusion of insanity, so to hear that coming from a complete stranger caught him by complete surprise.

"Sam has seven doctorates. Medicine is just one of them," Al pointed out, trying to get his buddy from Vietnam to relax around his friend. There was a squeal from the Handlink, drawing the attention of the Observer. "Uh oh, Sam, Ziggy says that the two guys that you left in the van are coming inside."

"They're going to be wondering what's taking you so long. Face is normally in and out of the VA pretty fast when he busts me out, so dropping me off shouldn't have been any different," Murdock mentioned.

Sam ran a hand through his hair and paced the hallway again. Not only did he have to deal with someone who could see him for himself, but also the other two from the van as well. "Great . . . if they find both of us here just talking . . ." he started to say.

"Go on. I can sneak back into my room okay. Al, wanna come with and catch up on old times?" the crazed pilot wondered.

Sam looked at Al with an expression on his face that begged his partner not to leave. He needed to get the details about his host, as well as why he Leaped into this situation. Punching a few buttons on the Handlink, Al read the display and told his friend, "Go ahead Sam. I'll catch up with you in a while when you're alone and fill you in on things."

Without even having an opportunity to say a word, Sam Beckett saw his best friend walk down the hallway with the strange pilot in the bomber jacket. Just seeing the two of them talk so casually, almost as if no time had passed between the two, made him wish that he was home . . . back with Al, his friends at the Project, and most importantly his brother Tom. Maybe one day he might make it, but for right now he was stuck in time . . . and often stuck in situations that left a lot to be desired.

Dr. Beckett turned and exited the building just in time. His holographic friend was right . . . the other two were almost at the entrance, and probably would have thought that this Face that he had Leaped into was just as crazy as Murdock if they had seen both he and the Army pilot talking to thin air.

"Man, what took you so long?" BA demanded grumpily, clearly not happy that it had taken this long for Sam to emerge from the building.

"Both Fulbright and Decker suspect that Murdock is still part of the Team and helping us out when we are hired by clients, even though they haven't been able to prove it. If they caught us here, we'd all be in trouble, especially Murdock," Hannibal pointed out, gesturing in the direction of the patient rooms.

"Sorry guys. It took a bit longer than I expected to sneak him back in. There were a few questions," Sam said, even though he wasn't talking about the VA staff. Sam had a lot of unanswered questions himself, but those would need to wait until Al could catch up with him and fill him in with the details of this mission. He just hoped that he wouldn't have to wait too long . . .

"Must be losin' your touch, Faceman," the big black guy with all the gold chains hanging from around his neck remarked. Seeing him face to face made Sam that much more thankful that they were supposedly on the same side. Although he was half-way tempted to call him a walking jewelry store, since that's exactly what he looked like, Sam thought the better of it. With that menacing scowl, the two tons of gold around his neck, and his muscular build, he was downright scary.

"Leave it rest, BA. Let's just get in the van and take off, just in case Decker does show up," Hannibal suggested. "He'll probably get replacement cars faster than we know it, and be hot on our tails again."

All three men complied with the suggestion, although in silence. The intimidating driver fired up the van and sped away as the physicist looked on. He slipped off the lab coat and stashed it in the spot where he had found it, and then decided to take a moment to straighten his tie.

Murdock had accused Face of being a different person, and not the Templeton Peck that Hannibal had saved from a prison sentence in Vietnam when he was first made part of the Team. Not just that, but he had been pretty insistent on it, and tried hard to convince the others of what he was seeing. Sam wondered if they were beginning to become suspicious as well . . .

* * *

MARINA DEL REY, CALIFORNIA

The sound of a bell clanged in the distance, and the call of seagulls filled the air. Waves gently lapped up against the hulls of boats anchored in the harbor, and a motor could be heard as a sailboat slowly maneuvered toward its slip where it would dock.

The blonde haired man who had been at the airport stood at a pay phone next to a warehouse by the docks. He picked up the phone and dialed the number, huddling close to the public phone as to not allow himself to be overheard. After a few rings, he heard a click which clearly indicated that the line had been answered.

"Kruger," the voice said over the phone with a thick German accent.

"Heir Kruger, this is Schutz," the male at the phone booth spoke into the handset. His accent wasn't quite as heavy as Kruger's, but still there were notable similarities.

"Report," Helmut Kruger ordered simply.

"The American reporter got away. It seems that we may have underestimated her, Commissar," Schutz told him, trying to keep his voice strong and confident and not betray the concern that he had. He knew that Kruger did not tolerate failure.

"She may have eluded you at the airport, Karl, but we have not underestimated her. Americans can be so predictable, especially females," Kruger noted over the phone with measured tones. "I know exactly where she will go."

"Sir?" Schutz questioned, trying to get some more clarification. Based on his response, he knew that his employer clearly wasn't happy with what he had just heard. In a way, he was thankful that there was an ocean that separated them, otherwise he may not have liked the punishment that he would have been given.

"It is obvious. She claimed to work for the Los Angeles Courier Express, so she will return there to contact her colleagues," Kruger reasoned.

"What are my orders?" Schutz asked, trying to get some clarification so he wouldn't upset his employer again.

"There is no doubt that she returned to her home country to seek protection. By now, she has already taken measures to ensure that. Hire men that you would consider trustworthy. I shall wire you the money to pay their fees. Capture her and return her to our country for interrogation within six days. Any longer than that, and her government will begin investigating her claims. Once she is placed in their protection, we lose our opportunity to take her to our country," Kruger explained.

"What shall I do, Commissar, if they prove to be untrustworthy, or if I encounter any individuals who wish to prevent me from . . . escorting the reporter back to our country?" Schutz wondered. He didn't anticipate being double crossed by any of those that he was going to hire, but he needed to know how far he could take things in case they did.

"Eliminate them. We cannot have anything threaten our plans. Our oppressors must be crushed," Kruger stressed firmly.

"Understood, Commissar," Schutz replied.

"Contact me once you have hired the individuals to assist you in capturing the reporter, and then I will wire you the money. After that, there shall be no further contact until you return to the country . . . successfully. Fail, and you shall not live," Kruger warned, his voice sounding very cold and calculated further emphasizing the seriousness of his threat.

"Yes, Commissar," Schutz acknowledged, unphased by what was just said. He was prepared to sacrifice his life for the cause, something that Kruger was well aware of and likely attributed as to why he was sent to the United States to pursue the reporter.

"Good luck, and goodbye."

Schutz hung up the phone and stared at it for a moment. He knew what he had to do and what was at stake. Time was moving quickly, growing shorter with every passing moment. Having received his charge, he took a deep breath and walked away, disappearing into the shadows to attend to his assignment.

* * *

WADSWORTH VETERANS ADMINISTRATION HOSPITAL

WESTWOOD

LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA

Murdock walked through the hallways of the VA hospital as he headed back for his room. The excitement he was feeling was beyond reason, now that Bingo was there with him. In a way, he felt like a kid at his first Christmas, with a ton of presents underneath the tree to open.

"Albert, I can't believe that it's you, and that you're here," Murdock exclaimed joyfully.

"It's great to see you too, Howie! I never thought I'd see you again! You still got the jacket too. It looks good on you . . . a lot better than it ever did on me. I was swimming in it," Al commented just as excitedly, walking right next to his best friend. Since the Army pilot was in a psychiatric ward, nobody would think that it'd be unusual for him to be seen talking to himself.

"Yeah, I remember when you gave me this jacket. It's been kinda like a good luck charm, never leave home without it," Howling Mad quipped, using the American Express credit card slogan to help emphasize just how much he came to rely on the A-2 bomber jacket that he had gotten from his best friend. "But, how'd you get here, though? I remember being in the hallway with Sam, and then there was this door of light that suddenly opened up and you walked right through it."

"Well," Al began to say, hemming and hawing a bit knowing that there was no easy way to explain this. "That's because I'm not really here."

Somewhat confused by Al's statement, Murdock countered, "What do you mean? You're walkin' right next to me."

"I look like I'm right next to you, Howie. I'm a hologram," Al corrected.

"What's that?" Murdock asked.

"It's a 3D projection of light and color that looks real, but really isn't there," the Naval Admiral mentioned. Seeing the confusion on Murdock's face, Al couldn't help to mutter under his breath, "I keep forgetting that holograms were practically unheard of in 1986 . . . at least until that Time Traveler arcade game in the '90s."

Right at that moment, a nurse appeared from around the corner, pushing a patient in a wheelchair. She was quickly approaching where they were standing, although Murdock was on the left side of the hallway so he was out of the way, but Al looked like he was about to be run over if he didn't move soon. Either that, or there would have been a monumentous collision if she wasn't paying attention to where she was going.

"Here, Howie, watch this," Al encouraged with a bit of a grin, making sure that he was square in the path of the nurse. She continued to walk right through Al as she pushed the wheelchair, totally oblivious as to the presence of the Observer. The close encounter was enough to allow Al to admire the nurse close up. "Are all nurses around here like her? She has a nice pair of bazongas."

The A-Team pilot was totally stunned, fully expecting the nurse to see Al and walk around him, or for a major collision to happen between them. "You're like a ghost!" Murdock exclaimed.

"Kind of," Al conceded, chuckling a bit. "Although some little kids may like to argue with you on that one. They confuse me for an angel."

Reaching the door to his room, Murdock opened it and stepped inside. Al simply walked through the wall, which only added more to Howie's curiosity. "Whoa, cool!" he said, watching Al emerge though the wall as if it wasn't even there. "How come nobody else can see you? That nurse walked right through you like you weren't even there."

Al sighed a bit, wishing that he had the foresight to bring a cigar with him into the Imaging Chamber. "This is going to go against all the rules," he started to say, only to be interrupted from a wild squeal on the Handlink. He hit the side of it roughly to shut the device up, and then put it into his uniform pants pocket. The last thing he needed was to hear the Handlink to squeal it's head off, much less Ziggy blow a microchip, at what he was about to tell his best friend from Vietnam.

"Howie, the reason why nobody can see me is because I'm 13 years in your future. To me, the year is 1999," Al noted, hoping that his war buddy could handle what he was about to divulge, especially considering how he was in a mental ward.

"If you're in the future, how can you be here?" Murdock asked out of curiosity as he sat down on his bed. He was still kind of confused, but he knew and trusted Al. Besides, after what he had just seen, nothing that his friend could tell him seemed too far fetched at this point.

"It's because of a top secret project called Quantum Leap. It deals with time travel," Al began to mention.

"Time travel? You mean like with Captain Galaxy and Future Boy?" Murdock asked, his eyes lighting up at the possibility of what was going on as he recalled the old black and white TV series.

"You know that show?" Al asked, somewhat stunned. If Murdock liked that show, then maybe explaining things to him wouldn't be as hard as he originally thought it was going to be.

"Yeah, it comes on as re-run at night," Murdock grinned, laying back on his bed as he continued to watch Al.

"Time Patrol was Sam's favorite show as a kid. It got him wanting to travel in time, although what he's doing now doesn't take a space ship," Al noted as he started to walk around to the other side of the room, walking straight through Murdock's bed in the process. "I guess it's kind of hard to explain."

Howlin' Mad sat up within his bed and leaned forward, looking at his friend. Murdock had a brilliant mind in his own right, and if he hadn't ended up in the VA, it was very possible that he could have been working at a science lab, part of the astronaut corps, or even as part of a CIA think tank. Although he tried to hide it behind his insanity, there was the occasional flash of brilliance that he shared with others that often surprised them. "Try me," he challenged.

Al brought his hand up to his head for a moment in order to compose himself, and then conceded. "Okay. Imagine your life is a string. One end represents your birth, and the other your death. If you tie the ends together, your life becomes a loop. Ball up the loop, and all the days of your life touch each other, allowing you to conceivably travel back and forth through time, visiting any day within your lifetime."

"That's the string theory. I saw the episode where Captain Galaxy explains that to a kid that wrote in . . . a little Sammy Beckett from Elk Ridge, Indiana," Murdock noted as he thought things through for a moment, before a realization hit him. The guy who he had taken Face's place was the same one who wrote that letter! A wild grin appeared upon his face as he lay back on his bed again. "I can see where the four fundamental interactions in quantum physics would make that possible, especially if quantum particles exist along the same string and you start movin' 'em fast enough."

"Yes!" Al affirmed, nodding to Murdock. Truthfully, he was amazed by the knowledge that his friend possessed, not expecting him to have understood something like advanced quantum physics. "That's our theory. Move them fast enough, and you can break the boundaries of time itself, and travel to any point in time along the same string."

The Texan unbuttoned the bottom of his bomber jacket and removed his dark blue baseball cap, putting it on the cabinet next to the bed, before returning his gaze to Bingo. "So how come your friend is actually traveling in time?"

Al paused for a moment, and then continued with his explanation, "Sam was under a lot of pressure to prove his theories were right, or lose funding. We all told him no, not to get into the Accelerator Chamber, but he did it anyways while I was off one night so I couldn't stop him. But, it didn't work like he had planned. Instead of Leaping into his own life, he wound up Leaping into the lives of others. The retrievalprogram wasn't finished. We tried to bring him back, but it didn't work."

Murdock could see how pained Al was just with what he had shared. "I'm sure he'll get back someday, Albert," the A-Team pilot tried to cheer up his friend. "What happens when he Leaps into others?"

"Well, he usually has to fix something that's gone wrong in history, and once he's done that he Leaps out. It kind of helps that, to everyone else, he looks and sounds like the person that he Leaped into. It makes it easier for Sam to do what he needs to do," Al detailed.

"How does he know what he needs to fix?" Murdock asked.

"Well, that's where I come in. See, I'm tuned into Sam's neurons and masons, which is why I can appear here, in this time, as a hologram. I can see and hear Sam, although the first few times it was hard when he Leaped into a woman," Al noted with a goofy grin on his face. "I kind of lusted after the women that he Leaped into until they fixed that. But, Sam, he can see me and hear me, but so can little kids, animals, those who are dying, and the mentally absent. No offense, Howie."

Murdock grinned, taking in all of the details as it really fascinated him. He was really soaking up every single ounce of information that Al was giving him, totally thrilled and intrigued by the concept. "If Sam bounced into Faceman's shoes, then where's the Faceman?"

Al waved his hand around slightly as he talked, like most Italians, "Oh, he's safe. He's in the future with me . . . although he hasn't recognized me yet. It'll knock his socks off once he does."

"Yeah, I bet it will. Face doesn't really like surprises," Murdock grinned. "Do you know what Sam is here to do, and why he ended up in Faceman's shoes?"

Al looked down, knowing the seriousness of the situation. "Yeah, Howie, I do. He's here to save Hannibal from being killed."

"Wha . . ." Hearing that statement was enough to cause Murdock to bolt up from his bed in total shock. He faced his friend to see if maybe there was anything on his face that could indicate what he just said was a prank, but found nothing but stoic sincerity. "Killed? When?" Howlin' Mad demanded, his voice taking on a much darker tone that was almost deathly.

Murdock ran a hand through his receding hairline, clearly stunned by what he had just heard. The thought of Hannibal being killed was nearly impossible to fathom. In spite of the suicidal missions, and even the Colonel's plans that went awry . . . which was often more often than not . . . he always seemed like a Superman. Strong, confident, always invincible, always escaping death, and always with a bright outlook for the future no matter how bleak the situation seemed to be. It is what made the others often look to Hannibal as their source of leadership, guidance, and inspiration. He kept them all alive, and in more ways than one.

"Five days from now. We don't have a lot of details, but that's what Ziggy . . . the computer that runs the project . . . says that he's here to do," Al reiterated.

"Are . . . are you sure?" the institutionalized pilot asked. "I mean, could . . . could it be a mistake?"

Al let out a sigh, knowing how hard this must be for his friend to hear. "Ziggy gives it a 95% probability, so we're pretty certain. I'm sorry, Howie."

Murdock paced the room almost like a caged tiger as thoughts raced through his mind. This news clearly troubled him. "Hannibal's like a dad to me. He kind of watches out for and protects all of us, but Hannibal and I . . . we're kind of cut from the same cloth, ya know? Sometimes, with some of his plans that he comes up with, he almost seems like he's crazier than me, if that's even possible. I wouldn't know what I'd do without him around," Murdock expressed.

His thoughts dwelled on the Colonel and his unique relationship with him. Hannibal had insisted to make Murdock a part of his unit, and it paid off in many ways. Although some of the other commanding officers tried to give the Texan trouble, John Smith always stepped in to defend his pilot . . . and Murdock's loyalty to the team was unfathomable and unquestioned, even during a brief stint when he got pulled from the unit in Vietnam for a CIA mission. Even today, Murdock and Hannibal understood each other in ways that the other members of the A-Team couldn't, even though Face often came pretty close.

"I know what you mean," Al stated solemnly. He was going through the same thing on almost a daily basis with Sam out there Leaping around in time. Although he could still contact Sam and help him out, somewhat, it wasn't quite the same.

"Albert, what can I do to help? To help Sam save Hannibal?" the A-Team pilot questioned.

"Well, you are going to have to be my back up on this one, Howie. You know Face, even better than I do, so you'll need to coach Sam from time to time on what Face would and wouldn't do. You'll need to help cover for Sam, and convince the others that he really is Face so he can fix history and Leap out," the Observer requested.

"Um . . . just one problem with that, Albert," Murdock began, not quite knowing how to tell his friend. "I . . . uh . . . already told BA and Hannibal that I saw someone else sitting in the van where Face was."

"Oh, boy," Al muttered under his breath, trying hard not to roll his eyes. Somehow, with how Sam's luck was at times, it kind of figured that things wouldn't be easy for him with certain Leaps like this one.

"Sorry, Albert. I didn't know," Howie apologized, looking down at the floor for a moment as he sat down on his bed, an expression crossing his face that made it seem like he was sulking . . . not because he had to lay off his antics, but this time because of his own actions. "It's kind of a shock to see one of your best friends sitting next to you one second, and then the next thing you know it's someone else wearing his clothes, and sitting in his spot."

"It's okay, Howie," the Observer mentioned, trying to make it clear that he wasn't angry. "What's important is that we both help Sam so Face can return."

"You can count on me, Bingo. I'll do anything I can to help," Murdock emphasized, looking up at the Observer.

Al smiled at Murdock, wishing he could just sweep his friend up in a great bear hug. Unfortunately, being a hologram, that was impossible right now. "I need to go check on Sam, and start filling him in," Al mentioned.

"Will you be back soon, Albert?" Howlin' Mad inquired.

"You can count on it!" Al said with a grin. Pulling out the Handlink, he tapped at a few buttons before calling out to the air, "Gooshie, center me on Sam!" And, in an instant, he disappeared from Murdock's sight, leaving the A-Team's pilot that much more fascinated by what was going on.

* * *

FORT IRWIN, CALIFORNIA

For Colonel Decker, the drive back to Fort Irwin following the multi-car accident earlier, at the hands of the A-Team, was one filled with silence. Roderick wasn't a happy man, and the other members of the Military Police could practically cut the tension with a knife. Their usual banter, when riding together in a canopy troop mover, was notably absent out of fear of risking any further ire from the Colonel which could cost them their military careers.

Even Captain Crane was notably silent, and did not ask some of the probing questions that he normally would have in order to gain insight from the man that had tangled with the A-Team a few times while in Vietnam.

The wheels on the truck emitted a low, long squeal as it slowly came to a stop within the army base. The tailgate was flipped down, and the men inside slowly climbed out. Decker was the last one out, pausing for a moment after he hopped out of the truck before heading over to a set of buildings.

Marcus Crane noticed this and fell into step along side his commanding officer. Even though he caught up with the seasoned officer, silence still clung to the air like a wet blanket, as they knew that their upcoming encounter with General Fulbright was not going to be pleasant.

Roderick realized that Marcus was walking next to him and pointed out, "Captain, you don't need to come with me."

"Perhaps not, sir, but I figured that you could use the support." Marcus countered.

"Thank you, Captain. I appreciate the sentiment," Decker responded in a softer tone. It was almost as if, just for a moment, the tough guy, hard-line soldier persona was cracking a bit just because he knew that he had a trusted officer who was willing to stand by him . . . even if it was just for a brief moment. Being in command was never easy, especially when things went wrong and you had to answer to someone higher up, but having this kind of support often could make a difference.

"No problem, sir," Crane said with a nod as they continued to walk toward the base offices. "Do you think that General Fulbright will allow you to continue your pursuit of the A-Team?"

"I'm not sure, Captain. I hope so. I do have a few new leads to follow up with, which could put the A-Team right in the palm of our hands," Decker noted, an air of confidence filling his words as he shared them.

"What kind of leads, sir?" Marcus wondered, trying to get some more insight as to what the Colonel was thinking.

Decker paused for a moment before reaching the door to the offices. He didn't want to tip his hat too early, and reveal too much about the leads that he could utilize to help in the capture of the A-Team. "All in good time, Captain. All in good time."

Captain Crane nodded, and stood outside of the door as he watched Decker proceed inside. Inwardly, he hoped that the man's military career wasn't going to be cut short, or the Army would lose a very intelligent and capable officer who had served his country with distinction.

Roderick Decker drew in a breath as he steeled himself against the onslaught that he was anticipating from General Harlan "Bull" Fulbright. The General's temper was very well known, hence why he had gotten the nickname Bull. Get him enraged enough, and he would often charge at anyone in his path like a raging bull would. He was well known for stripping officers of their rank and even their commands if they crossed him on a bad day . . . of which there were many.

Although Fulbright had some small amount of respect for Decker, due to the length of time that Decker had chased the A-Team in the past, Roderick knew that he was skating on very thin ice this time around. There was a very real possibility that his military career could be permanently over, right then and there, if Fulbright was upset enough.

Arriving at the door to the office, he knocked. Each sound bore through him like a searing hot bullet, almost as if sealing his fate as a condemned man before the trial could even begin.

"Come in," the voice of Harlan Fulbright could be heard through the door.

Drawing in one final deep breath to steel himself, Roderick Decker opened the door and stepped inside. "Colonel Decker reporting, sir," he announced crisply, snapping to attention and offering a salute.

"Have a seat, Colonel," Fulbright told him, not even bothering to get up or return the salute.

Decker did so obediently, although found it a bit hard to read the tone of Fulbright's voice to know just how this meeting was going to go. He removed his cap, and placed it firmly within his lap as he awaited his fate.

Fulbright leaned forward and interlaced his hands together. A very stern look appeared upon his face as he began, "Colonel, for many years you pursued the A-Team and you came close to catching them on a number of occasions. But, they always seemed to escape. I can't begin to even count how many vehicles were destroyed while you were assigned to capture the A-Team. The lack of results, the massive destruction of Army vehicles and equipment would be enough to warrant a court martial for neglect and incompetence."

Decker gave a slight nod, continuing to watch Fulbright as he spoke, noting that the anger that had been in Fulbright's tone of voice earlier over the radio was completely absent. That, in itself, could be a positive sign.

"But, I have experienced the same difficulties as yourself in trying to apprehend these men. And, for that reason alone, you not only get to keep your rank, you are going to remain on this assignment," Harlan informed him.

Roderick's face remained stoic, even though inwardly he was breathing a much deserved sigh of relief. "Thank you, General," he responded.

"Don't thank me just yet. This is just a temporary reprieve. My superiors are demanding results, which is why you were given another chance. But, if we were to combine our resources and work more closely together, I believe we will be able to successfully apprehend the A-Team, once and for all," Fulbright proposed.

"Yes, sir, " Decker responded affirmatively.

Harlan stood from behind his desk and walked around to the other side of it, while Decker stood up as well out of respect for his fellow superior officer. "Roderick, you and I are a lot a like, but what I really admire about you is your tenacity. You never give up, no matter how many times that you've failed to capture the A-Team. You just brush yourself off and try again, and I want to see you make the most of this chance you've been given. If we share our intel, and coordinate more, then the two of us together will likely be able to apprehend them, where one of us alone could not."

Roderick nodded, seeing the wisdom of the General's words. When Decker had worked by himself in the past to try and capture the A-Team, he never had the support like what Fulbright was offering now to him. If he had that kind of assistance a couple of years ago, which would have included intelligence, better equipment and supplies, better vehicles, he wouldn't have failed so often. "Sounds like a logical plan, sir," he mused.

"I've already approved a requisition for more vehicles and men. I'm doubling the compliment you just had, and I'll also be joining you out in the field myself. We'll start first at the VA hospital in Westwood, where Captain Murdock is located. There is strong evidence that he is still involved with the A-Team, so questioning him could lead to a significant breakthrough. I'm also approving additional gear and equipment for you and the men. Between our combined knowledge and experience, plus the additional equipment and manpower, we should have no trouble apprehending the A-Team," Fulbright informed him.

Decker nodded again, thankful that this meeting wasn't as bad as he had anticipated originally. "I appreciate the assistance that you are providing, General, as well as being given another chance," Roderick expressed.

"There is one condition to all of this, Colonel . . . one you may not like. We are on a timetable now. You must apprehend the A-Team in 5 days, dead or alive . . . although preferably alive . . . or you will be sent back to Bangor, Maine. I don't care what you have to do or what it takes, and I will pour all available resources into this to help you, so don't screw this up," Harlan told him sternly.

"Understood, General," Decker responded, offering a crisp salute. Fulbright responded by offering a salute in kind, an indication that Decker was dismissed. He stepped out of the office area and encountered Captain Crane again, who had an expectant look on his face.

"So, how'd it go with the General?" Marcus wondered, expecting Decker to be absolutely fuming himself by the time he got out of that meeting.

"Better than expected. The Bull calmed down enough to not take a run at us this time around, so we have another chance, and we're getting additional help and resources," Decker began to note.

"Once we're all squared away, where do we start?" Captain Crane wondered.

"We start at the Westwood VA, where Captain Murdock is located. It's long been suspected that the A-Team has helped him to leave his confinement from the mental ward, and he assists them when they help a bleeding heart in need. General Fulbright shares the same suspicions and will be joining us as we ramp up pressure on the A-Team. It won't be long before they slip . . . right into our hands," Decker noted confidently.

"I'll assemble the men, sir. If we're getting new vehicles, we should have everything lined up and ready to roll by sunset," Marcus pointed out.

"See to it, Captain," Decker affirmed with a salute. It was returned by one from Captain Crane, who then ran off to start getting things together.

Decker watched the younger officer run off to attend to the preparations, and then turned to look out over the California countryside. His eyes traced upward and downward along the nearby mountains, which reminded him of the ups and downs of his military career. After the events in Vietnam it almost felt like he was going down the side of the mountain, unable to stop, until a General had offered him a chance to do what Colonel Lynch had failed . . . to successfully apprehend the A-Team.

As much as he tried, he came closer than anyone had ever done up until that point . . . yet somehow, even when they were in custody, handcuffed, and secured, they always managed to escape. If they had managed to do it on their own, they could have taught the famed escape-artist Harry Houdini a lot of new tricks. No, but these escapes were never on their own. Each time, there had been someone else who seemed to show up and free them before they could be shipped off and locked up in the federal slammer for a long, long time.

When he had been pulled from the assignment, his career went downhill again and rather quickly. He had been relegated to some flea bitten, rinky dink office in a mailroom in Bangor. He had gotten used to the summers in California over the years while he pursued the A-Team. It was much like summers in the jungle of 'Nam . . . warm, sometimes a bit rainy and humid, but never bitterly cold. Bangor was like his worst nightmare during the winter, and he didn't know if he could stand another season there with snow up to his eyeballs and wind chills so cold that it seemed like he was going to freeze instantly on the spot.

Now, he had another chance, and his career seemed to be inching uphill again. He just hoped that the peak wouldn't come too soon, and too unexpectedly to where he'd stumble back down again. Drawing in a deep breath, he made his way over to another set of offices so he could get himself a somewhat decent cup of coffee and get some paperwork out of the way before continuing his pursuit of the A-Team. This time, he was more determined than ever not to fail . . .


	6. Chapter 4: Observations

_Toto, I have a feeling we're not in Kansas anymore._

_- Murdock, "Knights of the Road"_

* * *

_I think that last leap in time has added more holes to that swiss cheese memory of yours._

_- Al, "Good Morning, Peoria"_

**Chapter 4: Observations**

MONDAY, MAY 12, 1986

VAN NUYS

LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA

6:15PM PACIFIC TIME

Sam wasn't quite sure just how much time had passed since they had dropped Murdock off at the VA, let alone the distance they had covered in their current drive. His focus was maintained on the other two within the van, wondering exactly who they were or what kind of a situation he had Leaped into.

He felt the van slow, and then finally come to a halt along the side of a road behind some warehouses . . . or were they perhaps airplane hangers? This area didn't look like the most appealing spot in town, which made the hairs on the back of Sam's neck stand on end.

Hannibal turned around and said, "Don't forget about tomorrow, Face."

"Tomorrow?" Sam inquired, knowing that he did not possess the knowledge that his host did. He just hoped that asking about it wouldn't screw things up for him too much, especially after that . . . Murdock guy tried to say that he wasn't this . . . Face.

"Yeah . . . I've got a movie to do at the studio. My crew call is at 9am, so you'll need to pick me up at 7:30," he pointed out.

"Ah, okay," the physicist said, assuming that he, or rather this Face that he Leaped into, was supposed to be there during that time. At this point, Sam was almost convinced that maybe it was best that he say as little as possible, as that way he couldn't say anything that could risk raising the suspicion of the others.

An uncomfortable silence filled the air before the burly driver broke it by asking, "Why'd Murdock say you weren't Face?"

"I-I don't know. Maybe he's just seeing things again," Sam said as an excuse, hoping they would buy into it since Hannibal had mentioned about Murdock's invisible dog, Billy. The Nobel Prize winner knew the truth, and Murdock was seeing things . . . he was seeing right through the aura of the person he had Leaped into, where it seemed that the others could not. Plus he could also see Al . . .

"That fool's crazy. Hannibal, why do we keep havin' to bust him out of the VA?" the walking jewelry store wondered. It was very obvious from the tone of his voice that the driver wasn't too pleased to have Murdock hang around them on various missions.

"BA, you know the answer to that. Murdock is just as much a part of the Team as any of us. Without him, we would not have a pilot, we wouldn't have a donor for your special blood type, and you do have to admit that things would be a lot less interesting," Hannibal noted with a bit of a charming smile.

"Yeah, an' you had that crazy fool give me blood," BA said somewhat angrily.

"BA, it was only one time, and you could have died if Murdock didn't give you a transfusion. He's the only one we know who is an exact match for your AB negative blood without having to check you into a hospital where you'd be arrested at first sight," the white-haired male pointed out.

Sam was content on just listening to the conversation, as it offered more insights about those he was going to have to work with until Al told him what Ziggy computed that he had to do before he could Leap. Right now, his best friend with whom he had founded Project Quantum Leap was catching up on old times with a friend of his from the past who resided within the mental ward of a VA hospital.

Taking his cue from the lull in the conversation, Sam opened the sliding door to the van. Apparently, this was his stop . . . wherever this was. Hannibal had turned back around in his seat to look once more at the person whom he thought was a member of his elite squad. "Don't forget, Face."

"7:30 . . . I'll remember," Sam said, never feeling so eager to get out of the van. He hated to admit it, but the driver seemed to be very intimidating . . . even for him, despite his extensive knowledge of martial arts and self-defense techniques.

He watched as the vehicle pulled away and looked around him, wondering where he was. He couldn't recognize any of the buildings nearby, but he did notice that the plates on the van were from California. Although that narrowed down the possibilities of where he was, there were literally thousands of towns and cities within the state made famous by the gold rush.

A small Cessna took off from behind the fence line, which confirmed that he was near an airport, and those buildings he saw were actually hangars for the various companies that operated inside. It didn't look like there was much in the way of security, and smaller planes generally wouldn't fly out of a major international airport, which meant that this was the kind of airfield that appealed to aviation junkies and charter companies rather than commercial passengers.

But, that still didn't tell him exactly where he was, or what he was doing here . . .

Almost as if his prayer was answered, a familiar voice said, "How's it going, Sam?"

"How's it going? How else do you think it's going? You go off to talk to someone you haven't seen since Vietnam, and leave me hanging without even giving me some basic information on who I Leaped into," the brilliant scientist blasted out of frustration.

"Sorry, Sam, but since Howie could see me, I had to tell him what was going on so he wouldn't blow things for you. Besides, it was kind of hard to resist. I haven't seen or talked to Howie in almost 30 years. He and I met up in Vietnam and became best friends in a very short amount of time. The most I've been able to keep up with him was the occasional bulletin that came across my desk . . ." Al started to say.

"Bulletin?" the physicist wondered, his anger almost totally gone from his tone.

"Murdock is part of a Special Forces group called the A-Team. There's four members . . . H. M. Murdock, Bosco Baracus, John Smith, and the guy you Leaped into, Templeton Peck. These guys were legendary in 'Nam . . . the best," Al began to explain with a tremendous air of sincere fondness and admiration in his tone as he walked over toward the curb so Sam wouldn't be standing in the middle of traffic.

Sam was still very confused as he followed his friend over to the curb. Somehow, he had a feeling that there was a lot more to this that his partner wasn't telling him yet. "Yeah, but that was Vietnam, Al. What are they still doing together? And why were they being chased when I first Leaped in?"

Al let out a bit of a nervous chuckle, the kind that he normally would give when he wasn't quite sure how to share all of the necessary information. "That's, um, a bit of a long story, Sam," he pointed out, still trying to figure out how to best put this for his friend.

"Al!" Sam blasted, trying to get the details that the Observer wasn't telling him.

"Okay, okay," the Admiral conceded, removing his cap for a moment and running a hand through his hair before putting the military hat back on his head. "The reason why they're still together, and being chased is . . . is because they're wanted."

"Wanted?" Sam parroted, even though some of what had been said by the others already had suggested that very fact. The thought of Leaping into someone who was wanted by authorities, especially after what had happened the last few times, left the quantum physicist feeling absolutely disgusted and aghast at the prospect. "So I've Leaped into a criminal"

"Depends on who you ask, Sam," Al quickly pointed out, waving a hand around a bit. "Ask the military and the government, yeah, they'll say that these guys are criminals. But, ask anyone else, especially someone that they helped out, and they're likely to sing you a different tune. Ask any one of the A-Team, and it'll be a different story all together."

Sam looked at Al curiously, still trying to seek information and answers. He was starting to get frustrated with just how cryptic that the Observer was being. "What do you mean?"

Al paused for a moment, trying to gather his thoughts. Drawing in a breath, he started to explain, "According to what the guys have said, they were ordered by a Colonel Morrison to rob the bank of Hanoi. Supposedly, it was an assignment that could have brought North Vietnam to their knees. Murdock had dropped them off and was ordered to return to the HQ. While they were on that mission, the base was bombed. Rumor had it that Morrison was supposedly found dead before the shelling, eliminating the A-Team's only alibi, but the guy's body was never positively identified."

Hearing that last part immediately caused Sam to interrupt, as ideas started flowing through is mind. "Never positively identified? Al, what if this . . . Morrison guy is still alive? He could clear them, right?"

Al shook his head, waiving a hand around expressively again as he talked, "'Fraid not, Sam. When a base like that takes a shelling, sometimes things can get confusing in a war. If men turn up missing, and they find remains so charred that even the dog tags are melted and unreadable, they start putting two and two together. Things can be pretty confusing during a war. I should know."

"But they were acting under orders," Sam continued to push, not realizing the full story that Al was trying to tell him. Was he here to help find this Colonel Morrison? To help clear their names? There was so many possibilities, and he had no idea yet what Ziggy was going to project.

Al, at this point, really needed a cigar. It was the second time that he needed one already while in the Imaging Chamber. Unfortunately, with meeting Senator McBride, he didn't have the foresight to grab one and put it in his uniform pocket. If he had, he'd be puffing away on it now as he tried to relate things to his friend. Instead, his attention was captivated by a single-engine Cessna that was circling the airfield and on approach to a landing. "Sam, you realize that's a Cessna Skyhawk? There's more Cessna 172s built than any other aircraft in the world. Those things are a pure joy to fly," Al mused thoughtfully.

"Al," Sam said, frustration growing within the tone of his voice before repeating his original point, which he still couldn't quite understand. "How could the A-Team be wanted? You just said they were acting under orders."

"The mission was supposed to be classified," Al pointed out. "They couldn't take a copy of the orders with them because they couldn't have a paper trail, just in case they got caught. But, because they didn't take a copy of the orders with them, it became their word against a dead man, which was impossible to prove. When the war had ended, the US government was all too happy to make the guys a scapegoat, throwing them into a maximum security stockade for the robbery and treason and putting them on trial. Since Murdock wasn't with them when they were sent up the river, that's probably what made him snap and develop . . ."

Realizing that Al was stumbling over the term that he had used earlier when they had dropped off Murdock at the VA hospital, Sam chimed in, "Bi-polar disorder."

"They went over the wall, escaped from a high security stockade at Fort Bragg in North Carolina, before they could be convicted. Since then, they've been working underground as soldiers of fortune . . . mercenaries. They'll take just about any job that they can to help out those in need. You were so wrapped up in Project StarBright and planning Project Quantum Leap that you probably wouldn't have heard about what happened to them," the holographic Observer concluded.

"What more can you tell me about them . . . this A-Team?" Sam wondered, something still gnawing at him in the back of his mind, although he still hadn't figured out what it was yet.

Al let a bit of a smile cross his lips as he fondly related, "These guys are definitely a piece of work. Living on the edge like they did, they developed a strong bond, like a family, almost to the point where they know what the other is thinking. There wasn't anything that they couldn't do, which is probably why they kept getting all of the missions that was labeled as suicidal or impossible for any other unit. You wouldn't believe some of the stuff they can manage to pull off when their backs are against a wall."

Sam listened as he watched Al share the information . . . and then it finally struck him! "How do you know so much about these guys? I haven't seen you use the Handlink more than a couple of times so far on this Leap," he wondered. He certainly didn't need a repeat of what happened when he Leapt into horror novelist Joshua Ray.

"Two reasons. First, I had ran into them on a couple occasions while I was in Vietnam, and we were all held at the same POW camp. Second, the bulletins that I just mentioned are sent to anybody who holds a high rank in every branch of the armed forces and has detailed information on people who are sought because they went over the wall and escaped from a maximum security stockade," Al noted.

Sam was almost incredulous upon hearing this from Al. "You knew them in Vietnam?"

Al almost rolled his eyes at that question. "Of course I knew them in 'Nam. It's not a very big country, and a lot of us in the military used to hang out at the same places. The VC also used to stick us all in the same camps too."

"What can you tell me about the guy I Leaped into, as well as these other guys?" Sam questioned, hoping to get the information he'd need to hopefully help himself get through the next few days.

"You Leaped into Lieutenant Templeton Peck, born December 7, 1950, better known as Face or the Faceman," the former POW started.

"I remember Murdock calling me that . . . but why?" Sam wondered, still trying to get something more to go on, especially if he was going to have to make others believe that he really was this Templeton Peck, or Face character as they called him.

"Sam, haven't you taken a look in a mirror yet?" Al scoffed, thinking his time traveling partner had already done that. It was usually one of the first things Sam did, when he had a chance, if Al wasn't there right away with the information he'd need to help him with a Leap.

"I haven't had a chance to, Al . . . at least not without appearing conspicuous after Murdock telling the others that I wasn't this Faceman," Sam countered.

"When you do, you'll know why he was given that nickname. The guy is so incredibly handsome that he probably could have dominated the cover of GQ. He's second in command of the team, a wizard at math, a con man, used to be an orphan as a kid, and has legally changed his name 5 times," the former POW started.

"5 times?" the physicist questioned, totally in shock.

"He still uses those former names from time to time, especially when trying to buy something involving a credit or background check. That's how he managed to get his current luxury penthouse near the marina. He's the supply officer and usually ends up conning items out of other people so the Team can get out of a jam. He's got a little black book that I would love to take a look at with the names and phone numbers of all the women he's ever associated with . . ." Al trailed off thoughtfully, more distracted with that thought than watching the Cessna Skyhawk land beyond the airport fence.

"Al!" Sam said, trying to bring his friend back to reality. The last thing he needed to hear right now was one of Al's sex-related stories.

"Oh, sorry Sam. See that white Corvette over here . . . the one with the red stripe?" the Observer asked, seeing his friend nod an affirmative response. "That belongs to you . . . I mean, to Face."

"What can you tell me about the other guys that I was with?" the Nobel Prize winner asked, slowly walking over to the vehicle.

"The guy you dropped off at the VA is Captain Howard Madej Murdock, nicknamed Howling Mad, which was also his pilot call sign. He was born July 27, 1947. His mom died when he was five, and nobody really knows what happened to his dad. This guy is a wiz when it comes to anything that has wings or a rotor . . . he's flown all sorts of planes, jets, and choppers, even the experimental ones. He was with the Thunderbirds before Vietnam, and likely would have been an astronaut if things didn't happen the way they did. After he snapped, he was institutionalized at the VA in Westwood, California. His doctor there is an Alan Richter. Here's the kicker . . . not everyone thinks that Murdock is insane," Al started to say.

"What about the guy with all the jewelry hanging from around his neck?" Sam wondered.

"That's Sergeant Bosco Andre Baracus, better known as BA. He was born November 3, 1951 and lived with his mom in Chicago. He earned the nickname Bad Attitude because he likes to slug officers."

"Slug officers?" Sam gulped, realizing that his host was of a higher rank.

"Don't worry. BA probably wouldn't hit you because he knows that if he messes up Face's face, he won't be able to use his good looks to scam anything for a while, messing up their meal ticket. The guy is an expert mechanic and is the ordinance officer for the Team. The only thing is he is deathly afraid of heights and refuses to fly, especially if Murdock is going to be the pilot," the Navy pilot explained.

"And what about the last guy . . . the one with the cigar?" Sam quizzed.

"Colonel John Smith, born May 2, 1936. He's a soldier, born and bred . . . highly decorated too. Before Vietnam, he studied medicine for a while and then went to and graduated from West Point, andalso served in Korea. He earned his nickname of Hannibal because he can always come up with a plan, and they almost always seem to work no matter how reckless or crazy they seem to be. He has a very unorthodox style and likes pincer movements, along with going through the front door tactics. The guy has lived in the face of death too many times to allow it to keep him down, so he's probably got the brightest attitude I've seen in a human being. He was the one who first got me to start smoking cigars, Sam. Oh . . . when the Team isn't on a mission he makes a living as an actor, plus he's a master of disguise," Al told his friend.

The Nobel Prize winner reached the car, but did not immediately get in. Already, he felt that he had a handle on the problem that he had to fix. "Al, what does Ziggy say that I'm here to do? It's to help clear their names . . . or Murdock get past his bi-polar disorder, right?"

"No, I'm afraid not, Sam," the former POW said, his voice taking a very dark and solemn tone. That was usually the indication for the time traveler that the problem was something far more serious. "Hannibal gets killed in an assignment the Team takes . . . five days from now. According to Ziggy, that deals a major blow to the rest of the Team. Face tries to keep the Team together and taking on missions, but ends up getting killed by a foreign dictator, sacrificing his life to save the rest of the guys. Murdock winds up being institutionalized until he just disappears from the records. BA is shot in the back and is paralyzed when he tries to stop a gang war in Chicago."

Sam shook his head almost in disbelief, especially with how Al had described not only each member, but also how the team functioned as a whole. "I can't believe that a military unit like what you say this A-Team is would have gone that sour just because of the death of one of it's members."

"It wasn't just the death of one of its members, Sam. It was the death of the leader of the unit, the person who held the Team together. When a leader dies, the others lose their inspiration . . . their direction. Remember how hopeless everything seemed to be when President Kennedy was assassinated?" Al pointed out.

"No, not really. I was only 10 at the time, Al, so it was a bit confusing," Sam noted.

"I was in the Navy, and I'll never forget it. You have to remember that the President of the United States also serves as Commander in Chief of the Armed Forces. Yeah, we have Admirals and Generals and stuff like that, but the Pres is always the big boss. When that rat Oswald shot Kennedy, it seemed like it was the end of the world," the Apollo astronaut revealed.

"Al, based on what you've told me about how these guys operate, what's to say that if I save Hannibal's life this time that he won't be killed after I Leap out?" the time traveler wondered, praying that Ziggy wasn't wrong on this one. Ziggy had made brilliant projections in the past, but not all of them were accurate . . . much less simple.

The Observer punched a few buttons on the Handlink, which emitted a few chirps in response. Looking at the readout, he replied, "Ziggy says that, if you save him, there's a 98% chance that he won't be killed after that until he dies of natural causes."

"Does Ziggy have any details on how Hannibal is killed?" Sam inquired.

"No, there were never any details on how it happened, or even what the Team was involved in at the time. They never kept a paper trail, just in case they were captured. They didn't want any more charges added on to what they would have to face during a trial. According to the coroner's report, it was a gunshot wound to the neck. It severed the trachea, causing suffocation by his own blood . . ." Al admitted grimly, trailing off at the end.

The quantum physicist had an idea just how hard this was for his friend . . . almost as hard as when he had learned that his first wife, Beth, had declared him dead and remarried, only to disappear forever. "Al, go see what Ziggy can come up with. We have to find a way to keep Hannibal from getting killed,"

"I'm on it," the Rear Admiral replied, punching a button on the Handlink, opening a doorway of light. He stepped through, and Sam watched it close into nothingness.

The Nobel Prize winner got into the Corvette and started up the engine, which roared to life like a finely tuned machine. Resigned to his fate for the moment, he slipped the car into gear and pulled away . . .

* * *

TUESDAY, OCTOBER 26, 1999

PROJECT QUANTUM LEAP

STALLIONS GATE, NEW MEXICO

11:30AM MOUNTAIN TIME

Al emerged from the Imaging Chamber, seeing Senator Diane McBride standing at the base of the ramp. He had completely forgotten about her in his worries for Sam, as well as catching up on old times with Murdock. "Sorry that took so long, Diane. I, uh, got a little hung up back there," he apologized as he walked up to her.

"That was amazing, Al. I'm curious though . . . you found Sam, but yet you waited with telling him information to talk to someone who you knew from Vietnam," Diane wondered, hoping to gain some insight as to his reasoning and line of thought.

"I've got two reasons for that. First, Ziggy had said that the other guys were coming. If they had seen their team mate talking to thin air, they would have had him committed to the psych ward of that VA faster than Murdock," Al started to say, pressing a few buttons on the Handlink to put it into a standby mode.

"And the second?" she asked, hoping to get the truth out of him.

"Second, for some reason, Howie was able to see and hear me even though I'm supposed to be tuned in just to Sam's brainwaves . . . and he was able to see Sam for himself. He had even told the rest of the Team that Sam wasn't Face. If I didn't tell Howie the truth, he could have ruined any chances that Sam has to accomplish his mission so he can Leap out," the Navy Rear Admiral explained, walking over to the console in the middle of the room with Diane following him. He put the Handlink on the charging pad, and then turned his full attention to his guest.

"How could he have ruined the chances for Sam to accomplish his mission and be able to Leap?" Diane wondered.

"Considering the nature of what they do, if they became suspicious of Sam and didn't believe that he was the person that he Leaped into, they'd restrict his movements. If Sam couldn't freely act or do what he needed to, then he likely wouldn't be able to save Hannibal's life and correct history," Al detailed as they started to walk back towards the elevator.

"It can have that great of an impact?" she inquired as she walked next to him.

"It sure can. One of Sam's first Leaps was into a black man in the south at the height of segregation. Jesse Tyler was his name," Al began to relate, hoping that actually it would have been a perfect example of what he meant by that. "Sam tried to encourage integration, but the local townsfolk wouldn't have it. When Jesse's granddaughter was seriously injured in an accident, the closest hospital was one for whites only. Although Ms. Melanie helped her to get the treatment she needed so the granddaughter wouldn't die, Sam got arrested and wasn't able to be there to fulfill his mission and save Ms. Melanie from being squished by a choo-choo."

"If he was in jail and couldn't save her, how was he able to Leap?" the Senator wondered.

"Well, that's the funny thing about it. Somehow, she was able to hear me and pulled off into a cemetery just in time, although she didn't like my swearing," Al chuckled. "It seems that those that are close to death can see Sam for himself, and sometimes see and or even hear me as well."

"Amazing," Diane expressed. "I never would have imagined something like that could be possible. Then again, I don't think most people thought that time travel could become a reality."

Al nodded a bit and then smiled. "Well, Diane, if you're ready we can continue the tour."

"Of course, Al. I'd love to see what else you have at this complex," she smiled cordially, eager to see everything that she possibly could that was built into the multi-billion dollar facility.

* * *

MONDAY, MAY 12, 1986

HARBOR CITY

LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA

6:50PM PACIFIC TIME

Something bothered the leader of the A-Team . . . things weren't quite right and it left him feeling unsettled. Hannibal usually enjoyed being in the van with BA, and driving through the streets of Los Angeles and just looking at the various sites of the expansive city after a successful mission like the one they just completed, but this drive didn't help him to relax like they normally did. He never enjoyed that sensation, of feeling unsettled, as it usually did not bode well for his unit. "Pull over, BA."

The menacing mechanic glanced at his commander for a moment, and then did as he was ordered, easing the gray and black van to a spot along a curb in front of a few businesses. Turning back to the Colonel, he questioned, "What's wrong, man?"

"Did you notice anything unusual with how Face was acting since we got in the van with Decker on our heels?" Hannibal wondered. He hated to bring this subject up . . . he generally had complete faith in his second in command, but he couldn't get over how distant Templeton Peck had been.

"Yeah, now you mention it. He was too quiet . . . Faceman's never been that quiet 'less he's got something botherin' him," BA noted.

"He did come awfully close to biting the big one back there. That'd be enough to phase anybody for a while, whether we've faced death before or not," Hannibal countered, before continuing with his original train of thought that left him so concerned. "But it's more than that, BA. Did you notice how he side-stepped our questions? How he didn't remember my crew call tomorrow morning, or even breaking Murdock back into the VA?"

"That's right . . . he called you by your nickname, but didn't call me an' Murdock by our names or ranks. You think Faceman might not be right in the head?" BA asked, growing concerned for his fellow Team member just as Hannibal was. In spite of his menacing appearance and gruff demeanor, BA was a softie at heart . . . even if he didn't want everyone to know it most of the time.

"It's hard to say, BA. He was fine and talkative when he first got into the van. What makes it even more strange is what Murdock had said . . . that someone else was in Face's clothes, not our Lieutenant. Even the look in his eyes was different, especially when he was coming out of the VA after dropping off Murdock. I think something happened to him while he was in the van . . ." Hannibal deduced.

"He didn't look like he got a concussion, did he?" BA wondered, trying to point out another possibility.

"I don't know, BA. That road we were on while escaping Decker was kind of rough and we were bouncing around pretty good, but not enough to make him hit his head in the van," the A-Team's commanding officer countered. He had some medical training in the past, and would easily recognize the signs of a concussion if one of his officers had it.

"Got a plan, Hannibal?" the Sergeant questioned.

"Yeah . . . let's try to tail him, see where he goes and what he does. If he isn't thinking straight, he's bound to get into trouble, and I don't want to be too far away in case he needs backup. If necessary, I'll confront him tomorrow and see what he says," the strategist suggested.

He really hated the idea of following Face like he didn't trust him, but he wasn't acting like himself. Although Murdock acted crazy, the pilot was brilliant in his own right, knowing when it was okay to goof around and when things needed to be taken seriously . . . he would not have made the accusation he did lightly. Plus there was this nagging feeling that left him unsettled. Having learned to trust his instincts, especially in the line of fire, it was a warning that more was going on than they possibly knew. Hannibal pulled out a cigar and rolled it between his fingers, justifying the plan to himself by thinking that they were doing it just to make sure that Face was okay.

"What if he spots us, man? Face isn't gonna like us followin' him like this," BA pointed out, knowing how paranoid Templeton Peck could be at times, especially if there was any possibility that Hannibal could commandeer one of his scams. Although he was very much a member of the A-Team, Templeton Peck very much enjoyed having private time away from the guys where he could build upon the high-society appearance that he tried to project . . . an appearance that often had him seeing a whole host of women.

"We'll just have to make sure that he doesn't see us, BA," Hannibal mused before a wry grin crossed his face. "Of course, we could always use Murdock's white paper approach and make ourselves invisible."

BA rolled his eyes at that last comment, and groaned, "Awww, Hannibal." He always hated it when the Colonel started to seem just as crazy as Murdock was, but then again Hannibal had a higher tolerance for Murdock's antics than BA did.

Hannibal let out a bit of a light laugh at BA's reaction, and then lit up his cigar before taking a puff on it.

"Where do you suppose we start looking for Face?" BA wondered as he shifted the gear select back into drive and slowly pulled away from the curb.

Hannibal thought for a moment and then suggested, "Let's start by checking out that new penthouse of his and see if he's gone back there. Beyond that, we'll have to check out some of the places where he's running a scam, and then start doing a grid search, even if it takes all night." It was very clear from the tone of his voice that Hannibal was determined to protect his Lieutenant.

* * *

ECHO PARK

LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA

7:15PM PACIFIC TIME

Sam pulled the Corvette out of the flow of traffic and shifted into park in front of a gated apartment building complex with a stone archway that lead into a plaza with a fountain. Daylight was beginning to fade into the gentle darkness of night, literally setting the sky ablaze with vibrant shades of orange due to the smog. He realized he had no idea where he was going, and knew that he couldn't keep driving around forever. In his worries for what was going to happen to the Team, he had forgotten to ask his holographic partner where this Templeton Peck was currently living . . . let alone where John Hannibal Smith resided.

He had seen a car phone within the van, and there was a similar one next to him in the Vette, but he didn't know the phone number. If he did know the numbers and were to call, asking for the address or directions, that would only serve to lend credence to what Murdock had told the others.

Considering Al's sense of humor, he half expected the Observer to appear out of nowhere with a sign in his hand that boldly read "This way to Face's penthouse." Sam doubted that was going to happen, especially not when the Rear Admiral was trying to research things on his own end. As much as he dreaded doing so, the brilliant scientist had no other choice . . . he had to return to the VA and ask the institutionalized pilot.

He reached over and opened the glove compartment, relieved to find a map of Los Angeles inside. Spreading it out across the steering wheel, he scoured it until he found where he currently was on the map. There were several markings, which made Sam raise an eyebrow in curiosity, wondering what exactly they meant.

"Great," he muttered in regards to the markings that were written on the map, and obviously weren't printed on there. "I might as well be reading hieroglyphics."

Looking closer, he noted that there were three Veterans Administration hospitals within the greater Los Angeles area. The sign that was outside the entrance of the hospital they had taken Murdock to had read "Veterans Administration Psychiatric Hospital." He had remembered seeing a freeway close by. Glancing at the map again, he noted a Veterans Administration area along the 405 San Diego freeway, just off Wilshire, with the letter "M" scribbled over one of the buildings. It was as good as a place as any to start . . .

Folding up the map, the quantum physicist peered into the rear view mirror, getting a look at his host for the first time. Now he understood why everyone was calling him . . . calling Templeton Peck . . . Face. Al's description had been dead on. Staring back at him was the reflection of a male in his 30s with sandy blonde hair that bore golden highlights, blue eyes, and a very handsome, well-shaven face. Sam thought the countenance looking back at him was that of a male model or even a glamorous movie star.

Sam smiled, and watched his host's face as it also smiled. Now he understood why Al had told him that Templeton Peck was a con man. He not only had looks that could kill, but combined with a smile like that he could likely charm a widow out of her life savings with just a few words if he had to. That thought turned Sam's stomach, knowing how much of a mensch he was . . . or at least that's what Al had said his 3rd wife, Ruthie, would never have called the Observer . . . a good guy, in Hebrew.

The more that Sam looked at the reflection in the mirror, the more it reminded him of how his face looked like. It was very similar in many ways, although there were subtle differences in terms of the overall shape of the face, eyes, and even the haircut. Perhaps, in another lifetime, they could have been relatives with how close in appearance that Sam noted them to be.

But Al had mentioned, when he filled him in on the members of the Team, that Face had been an orphan. Could there be a chance that they were related? The more he wracked his swiss-cheesed memory, the more he discounted that thought. His entire family had been pretty close to all of their relatives, and even though they weren't wealthy, there was simply no way that any one of them would have given up a child for adoption, so that ruled out that thought.

Shifting the car into gear, Sam pulled away from the curb. Deep inside, he knew this probably wasn't a good idea, especially considering that he and the others had been chased by the military police and some man that Hannibal and the others referred to as Decker. Going to the VA increased the chance that he could get caught, but Sam had no other choice.


	7. Chapter 5: Sneaky Feelings

_I'm gonna need the love and support of all the friends I can get. And I want you to be my role model. Somebody I can look up to when the purple wobbilies start to wobble. _

_- Murdock, "The Beast From the Belly of a Boeing"_

* * *

_You're getting a little paranoid._

_How do you think I've lived this long?_

_- Sam and Al, "The Color of Truth"_

**Chapter 5: Sneaky Feelings**

MONDAY, MAY 12, 1986

MALIBU, CALIFORNIA

7:55PM PACIFIC TIME

Hannibal waited calmly and patiently outside the mahogany door. Face had inadvertently let the location of his recently scammed penthouse slip, which was the only reason why John Smith was standing in the hallway right now. Templeton Peck had tried to pride himself on keeping the location of his scammed penthouses concealed after he had posed as Mr. Toney, the famed interior designer, and ended up with not only having the penthouse shot up by General Chao's goons but also with having to tear apart the elevator and other common areas much to the dismay of other high-society building tenants.

A grin tugged at his lips as he recalled how Face wouldn't let the rest of the unit live that one down, complaining about it with every opportunity until BA had threatened to shut him up permanently if he said another word about it, much in the same way he often did with Murdock.

The Colonel glanced around, admiring the handiwork of his Lieutenant even though he hadn't even walked into the penthouse. Face had, once again, gone above and beyond to scam one of the finest and likely most expensive digs in the Los Angeles area. Just the hallway alone could be featured on the Lifestyles and the Rich and Famous with Robin Leech.

He took in the décor with an appreciative gaze, noting the gold trim on the white marble wallpaper that lined the walls, the mahogany paneling that matched the door to the penthouse, and the dentil molding. Claw footed mahogany accent tables stood at various spots throughout the hallway. Upon each table rested a well crafted porcelain vase, which looked like it cost more than a box of his Braniff cigars, and filled with a selection of flowers native to southern California that looked like they had been cut fresh that morning and artfully arranged.

Above each of the expensive tables, gold wall sconces provided a soft but gentle illumination that was perfectly balanced between not being too bright as to be blinding, but not too dark to where people couldn't see where they were going and trip over one of the tables. It all bore the makings of high class elegance that was designed to let you know that you were finally among your well funded peers. It was just the type of place for Face to live the refined life, perfect for cultivating contacts and lining up marks for future scams and plans.

'Not bad, kid,' Hannibal thought to himself, appreciating Face's power of persuasion that allowed him to acquire a penthouse in a place like this. And all he had seen so far was the hallway outside of it. He could only imagine what it'd look like inside of it . . . but that was if Face would ever open the door and let him in.

Raising his left wrist and twisting it, he glanced at the face of his watch as the seconds ticked away. It had been almost three minutes since he had rang the doorbell. That alone should have prompted Face to show up at the door with his .38 in hand. But, Hannibal had also followed that up a minute later with the special knock on the door, which Face would have clearly recognized. The first naggings of concern started to grow the longer the door remained unanswered, unless . . .

Although he and BA had briefly discussed it, there was still the possibility that Face had a hot date tonight and didn't bother to tell anyone. He could have set it up the moment they got back and he hopped into his 'Vette, before racing off to wine and dine some beautiful woman. Hannibal found himself smiling at the thought.

Even after all of these years, it still amused him with just how smooth the con man was. What Face was capable of acquiring for himself or the Team was nothing short of amazing, especially in situations that mattered the most. He couldn't even begin to count the number of times where it seemed like there were no resources anywhere in sight for him to have acquired some of the things that he did, yet somehow he always managed to come through. No matter how crazy it was, Face would get it. His powers of scamming wasn't limited to just money and equipment either. No, he had a natural charm about him that attracted women to him like a magnet, where they would follow his every beck and call if given a chance and even be grateful for the opportunity.

Hannibal allowed his mind to drift for a moment as he recalled something from what seemed like almost a lifetime ago. Face had taken up a dare from Ray right before the end of Ray's last tour and shipped back stateside. Even though he had been pretty new to the unit at the time, the kid somehow managed to scam a '53 pink Cadillac convertible in the jungles of 'Nam. Nobody could figure out how he did it, and even to this day Face continued to remain tight lipped about it. If one of the unit were to ask him about it, he'd flash a huge, disarming grin and call it a professional secret.

It was that type of feat that showed the level of talent which made Face an essential and integral part of the Team. Unfortunately, it was that same talent and charm that threatened his military career, landing him in the brig more times than not for even the pettiest little things. That was, at least, until the leader of the A-Team persuaded the MPs to release the young Templeton Peck into his custody.

When Hannibal had convinced them to do so, he knew that it was a risky move on his part . . . yet the cunning strategist had built up a reputation of picking out the dregs of the Army, the guys that they wanted to wash out and be done with, and turning them around. Face wasn't the first one that he had taken under his wing and mentored, and he never once regretted his decision either.

In doing so, it also gave the lost young man something that he wanted. No, it wasn't that he just wanted it . . . he needed a family. The type of tight-knit family that the A-Team created certainly wasn't like Ozzie and Harriett or Leave it to Beaver . . . well, maybe it was sometimes with the way Murdock and BA went at it like siblings who got on each other's nerves . . . but it provided that sense of belonging that Templeton Peck had so desperately craved. The bond that the four of them forged in the fires of war and combat was, in short, unbreakable, with all of their unique talents contributing to the astounding success rate they had over the years.

More importantly, the fact that Hannibal was willing to put his trust in Face and give him a chance where nobody else was willing to do so, it created a chord that reverberated within the young con man. And, in so doing, it gave the Team someone who was completely loyal and unbending in his ultimate dedication to them and remained as such even in the years after Vietnam.

The longer that the door to the penthouse went unanswered, the more the battle-honed senses of Colonel John Hannibal Smith went on alert. He knew better than to ignore his gut feelings, especially with how Face had acted in the van. Done waiting, he reached into a pocket of his Abercrombie and Fitch tan safari jacket and pulled out his black leather gloves. He slipped them on, and then pulled out a wallet from the back pocket of his black jeans that he wore. Opening up the black leather tri-fold wallet, he grabbed a credit card and slid it out of one of the slender slots where it had been held.

A small smirk tugged at his lips as he read the name on it . . . Michael Calhoun. That credit card, along with other identification, is what Face had managed to set up for Hannibal right after their escape from Fort Bragg . . . an alias that he used whenever he had to buy anything legitimately without the risk of alerting the military, or even when he acted as his own agent.

Carefully, Hannibal slipped the card into the small opening between the strike plate and the door knob, maneuvering it around until it caught the latch. A little bit of wiggling, and the door popped open.

"Eat your heart out, Face," Hannibal grinned as he put the credit card back into his wallet. Folding up his wallet, he put it back into his pants as he carefully made his way into the penthouse.

Instinct kicked in as his smile faded and he looked around, carefully surveying the scene and trying to figure out whether or not his Lieutenant had even returned here after they had dropped him off at his 'Vette earlier. Pulling out his silver Smith & Wesson 639 that was tucked into his belt, he released the safety and began to search the penthouse.

No lights were on, and the only sound was a faint hum . . . almost barely perceptible, emanating from another room. The only light came through the expansive windows that overlooked Malibu Beach, as well as ones that allowed him to see the skyline of Los Angeles itself. If this were any other time, he would have stopped to admire the amazing view of the city that had become their home for over ten years. His crystal blue eyes were quickly adjusting to the darkness within the penthouse, which would make it easier for him to move around and perform the search.

Looking back towards the door, he could see a few pieces of mail sitting on the floor, presumably put through the mail slot. It wasn't like Face to just leave mail laying on the floor, especially when he prided himself on scamming these high-class places to live and tried hard to leave the place as pristine as he found it. He even recalled how the con man tried to keep BA off a white couch, when Face posed as Mr. Toney the famous interior decorator, once the mechanic had gotten covered with oil and grease after working on the engine of a van.

Following the hum, he carefully made his way into what looked to be the kitchen and spotted the refrigerator, which was operating quietly, but still was the source of the hum. From there, he checked out the bedroom, and then the bathroom, only to find that the place was completely empty. There had been no indication that Face returned to the penthouse at all, which meant either he quickly scored a date for tonight immediately upon their return, or something else was going on . . . something that Hannibal was certain that he wasn't going to like.

Thankfully too, this meant that there were no intruders . . . especially guys wearing olive drab that they really wanted to try to avoid. If Decker, Fulbright, and their goons weren't casing out the place, that likely meant that this penthouse was recently scammed and they hadn't picked up on yet.

Walking back into the living room, Hannibal clicked the safety back on the gun and tucked it back into his belt before going over to pick up the phone and then dialed a number from memory. After a couple of rings, he heard a familiar voice answer. "BA, it's Hannibal."

"You okay up there, man? Any sign of Face?" the muscular Sergeant asked over the phone.

"Yeah, I'm in the penthouse right now, and it looks like he didn't come back here," the Colonel noted to his ordinance officer.

"You don't think he got himself a date?" BA wondered, knowing how fast the con man operated sometimes with women. Inwardly, BA didn't like it, since there was too much potential for a nice girl to have her heart broken by him . . . even if unintentionally.

"With Face, you never know. He does have that black book of his with a lot of numbers for women he could call, so it is possible. But if he did get a date, we may not know where he is and Los Angeles is a big city," the strategist countered. "There's a lot of fancy restaurants that he could have gone to, even ones we aren't familiar with."

"What we gonna do, man?" BA inquired, starting to get worried about Face.

"I'm going to plant some of your miniature bugs here, just to be on the safe side, in case he shows up. I'll be down in five minutes, and then we can swing by the VA to see if he went back to visit Murdock," Hannibal told him before hanging up the phone.

Pulling out a small box that he had gotten from BA in the van, he opened it up and saw the small electronic devices. They were tiny enough to where they could easily be hidden on or under anything, and not be noticed if placed in the proper position. He hated doing this, but Face's actions left him no other choice. The more that time went on, and he mentally reviewed what had taken place . . . even Murdock's claim that the person in the van next to him wasn't Face . . . the more he became worried. Even though Murdock was certifiable, he knew when he could kid around and when he couldn't. Taking a sweep through the penthouse, he put one bug in each room, hoping that Murdock had just been fooling around and he didn't have anything to worry about from his second in command.

* * *

TUESDAY, OCTOBER 26, 1999

PROJECT QUANTUM LEAP

STALLIONS GATE, NEW MEXICO

1:05PM MOUNTAIN TIME

As the tour of the Project started to wrap up, Senator Diane McBride still seemed in total awe at everything that she had seen. "I'm here, I'm seeing all of this . . . and in a way, I still don't believe it. Nothing on paper can come close to really describing what it's like to be here in person," she expressed.

"I take it that you've enjoyed the tour?" Al asked her with a bit of a coy grin.

"Immensely," she smiled back at him as they continued to walk through the hallways. "I'm glad that I took you up on your offer for the tour. It was very enlightening. Do you get many visitors to the Project?"

Al was about to respond when Ziggy's sultry voice penetrated the air. "I'm sorry to interrupt your tour for Senator McBride, Admiral, but there is an urgent phone call from the front gate guard."

"The front gate guard?" Al repeated to himself. Unless there was a major breech of security, the front gate guards kept to themselves, the first line in the overall Project security. If they were calling, then it had to be something important. "Put him through on speaker, Ziggy."

Almost instantly, a muffled roar could be heard in the background which almost threatened to make it difficult to hear the young man that was coughing on the other end of the phone. The sound of a siren could also be heard, although very faintly, which meant that something was going on close enough to the Project that it warranted Al's attention. Considering that Quantum Leap was built into a mountain at the former sight of ground zero . . . the first atomic weapons test . . . it was very unusual as well as slightly alarming.

"Calavicci here. What the hell is going on?" Al demanded.

"Sorry for disturbing you, Admiral. Sir, the Project is being placed on lock down," the young man responded between coughing fits. It almost seemed like he was yelling due to the sound in the background.

"Lock down?" Al parroted, clearly disturbed that someone else could order a lock down of the Project without his knowledge or permission. He tried to compose himself, remembering the company he was in, as he demanded, "By who's authority and for what reason?"

"Sir, a major wind storm has hit the area, kicking up dust and debris for miles around. Visibility is zero, so the New Mexico State Police have shut down all roads until this passes and advising everyone to stay inside," the guard revealed somewhat shakily.

"Nobody can leave? I have to get back for a committee meeting," Diane expressed.

"I'm afraid that's correct, ma'am," the guard reiterated, not realizing who had been with the Admiral. "It's worse than the dust bowl of the 1930s. There is no visibility, and you wouldn't be able to keep a vehicle on the road, much less see more than a foot in front of you," the guard indicated, sounding pretty nervous, if not scared.

"When do they say that this is going to pass?" Al wondered as he looked toward Diane apologetically.

"They say that this will clear up within 36 hours, sir," the guard responded, again coughing.

"Keep me posted. I want to know the minute it clears up enough out there," Al ordered, before turning back to his guest. He let out a bit of a sigh, and then softened his tone as he spoke, "I'm sorry about this, Diane. I guess you won't be making that committee meeting . . ."

"On the contrary," Diane told him with a smile as they resumed walking through the corridors, "Since I'm head of the committee, they can't start the meeting without me."

The Project Observer started to laugh at what Diane just mentioned. He could never figure out how Washington worked sometimes, and hearing that a certain committee meeting couldn't start without its chair somehow struck him as oddly funny. He wouldn't have expected that one if it didn't practically hit him in the face.

Once he regained his composure, Al suggested, "Well, since you're gonna be stuck here for a while, why don't we grab some lunch in the cafeteria with Donna Elesee and Sami Jo Fuller, and then after that we can get you a place to stay here at the Project for a couple of days until this clears up."

"Now that you mention it, I am a bit hungry. The drive from Alamogordo did take a bit longer than I had expected," she mentioned as her stomach rumbled almost as if on cue. "I appreciate the hospitality, Al, but I don't want to burden you too much, especially since Sam's Leaped into someone."

Al waved a hand, almost as if dismissively. "It's no trouble at all. It's my pleasure, Diane. Now, if you'll allow me to escort you, I believe we have a lunch date," he grinned coyly, holding out his left arm a bit like a true gentleman. He felt her wrap her arm around his, and then they both began to walk to the cafeteria . . .

* * *

MONDAY, MAY 12, 1986

WADSWORTH VETERANS ADMINISTRATION HOSPITAL

WESTWOOD

LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA

8:35PM PACIFIC TIME

Sam pulled the white Corvette into the parking lot of the VA hospital, recognizing the doors which he had escorted Murdock through not that long ago. He could just imagine Al popping in any moment and asking him what the hell he was doing back here, and telling him that this was a bad idea . . . a very bad idea.

Since this was a veteran's hospital, it not only bore medical staff, but also military staff as well who provided security. If one of them recognized Face, then he'd be in handcuffs faster than he could think. From the way Hannibal had talked earlier, it sounded as if Face was the one who often had to break Murdock out of the VA, so it was probably pure dumb luck that nobody had recognized him so far.

He shut off the ignition and slipped the key into his right pants pocket as he drew in a breath. He looked in the rear view mirror again, only to see the face of Templeton Peck staring back at him. He couldn't believe that someone who looked like Face did could be a criminal.

Then again, he had Leaped into criminals in the past . . . but this time was different. From the way that Al described the A-Team, they really did seem like modern day Robin Hoods. That sat okay with him in one respect as he really liked helping others, but on the other hand there was still the fact that he . . . well, Face and the other members of the A-Team were wanted men.

Being the proverbial boy scout, as Al often called Sam, he had to wonder if maybe Face's life would be better off if he turned himself in and did the time in jail for robbing the Bank of Hanoi, and escaping from a military stockade. Maybe he could get an early release for good behavior and be out in 17 years instead of 30 . . .

He stopped right there at that thought, quickly reminding himself that he had to fix history, and he couldn't do it if he was stuck in some kind of a prison, military or otherwise. Plus, if he landed in jail, then Hannibal would be killed, and chances are the remaining members of the A-Team would be met with a horrible fate.

Seeing no other alternative, Sam reached over to the map on the passenger seat and folded it up, putting it into the inside pocket on the suit coat that he was wearing. Opening the car door, he climbed out and headed for the building . . . but instead of heading for the front doors, he went around the side, hoping to locate the patient rooms in what would have been the psychiatric wing.

Right now, his only chance of figuring things out, much less getting any decent sleep tonight, was to find Murdock. Since he could see Sam for himself and Al, his holographic partner had to tell Murdock about the project and what was going on, so the pilot wouldn't blow things for him. All Sam could do now was hope that Murdock could help him get through the next few days, so he could save Hannibal's life and Leap.

* * *

BA eased his precious GMC van to a stop in a service driveway of the VA hospital complex. He had customized the van himself, painting it black on the bottom, charcoal gray on top, and separating it by a red stripe that ran along the length of the van until it reached a red spoiler in the rear. It was his pride and joy . . . and he absolutely hated it whenever someone else drove his ride.

He had positioned the van well . . . the nose was out far enough to give him and Hannibal a clear view of the parking lot, while keeping the van out of sight from just about everyone else. After 13 years of being on the run, what would have once required a conscious thought was now something he and the others did instinctively.

He glanced over to the parking lot where he noticed that Hannibal was looking, immediately spotting Face's white Corvette, which also bore a similar red stripe. Despite the darkness of night, it glistened brightly in the well-lit parking lot. BA smiled a bit, remembering how proud Face was to have managed to save up and buy the sports car, right before they took that job in Tarzana to help the Lonestar Cab Company. He had tried to convince Face to let him customize it to compliment the red interior, and how Face had reluctantly agreed to do the work on the plain white Corvette . . . just as long as he didn't paint it the exact same color scheme as the van. He also recalled how pleasantly surprised Face had been when he saw the finished work.

Hannibal opened up the glove compartment, pulled out a pair of binoculars, and snapped the glove box shut again. He shifted the position of his lit cigar hanging out the side of his mouth as he raised the spyglasses to his eyes, peering through it to get a clearer view. His brow furrowed slightly as he watched Face get out of the Corvette and jog over toward the psychiatric building.

BA also noticed this and echoed the very sentiment that weighed heavily on Hannibal's mind, "What's Faceman doin' back at the VA?"

"Good question, BA," Hannibal murmured thoughtfully, peering through the binoculars. The fact that Face decided to return to the VA only added more legitimacy to the growing concern that he had . . . a concern sparked by what Murdock initially had said in the van.

"Crazy foo' and Faceman are pretty close. Think they're cookin' up ideas for scams for missions?" BA wondered. Even the muscular Sergeant had noticed how, in several scams over the years, Face had gotten the pilot to accompany him. By doing so, Murdock had gained enough experience to where he was able to run some scams when he wasn't with the con man, like the one when he had to pose as a computer repair salesman when they had visited the Duke in Whispering Pines.

"Maybe . . . but why wouldn't he just call Murdock instead of taking the risk of coming here alone? Decker's got to be madder than a hornet's next that got kicked over after losing us earlier, so he's going to be more determined than ever to capture us," Hannibal countered. There were times when it was logical to pursue a plan or idea, and other times when it was just plain stupid . . . although as a seasoned leader, he knew how to tell the difference, as well as how to amend his plans on the fly in order to adapt to elements he hadn't originally planned for. With Decker hot on their heels and Fulbright likely not too far behind him, the idea of visiting Murdock unplanned was not just a foolish idea . . . it was reckless.

"Foo' does have that phone line in his room, don't he?" BA recalled.

"Yeah, and you installed it for him," Hannibal grinned, reminding the mechanic of his electronic prowess that allowed their pilot to get a private phone number. He remembered how thrilled Murdock was when they did that for him, although he certainly had annoyed BA through his near-constant phone calls to the mobile number in the van shortly after getting it put in.

"I still don't like it, man. Faceman's headin' for trouble," BA affirmed.

Hannibal turned over his wrist and looked at the time on the watch strapped to his right arm. "Ten minutes . . . if he's not back out in ten minutes, I'm going after him myself."

* * *

SANTA MONICA, CALIFORNIA

Karl Schutz stood at the end of the Santa Monica pier, as he had been instructed to do by his first contact . . . his first potential hired gun. He had to admit, Helmut Kruger thought of all possibilities once he learned how close the reporter was getting to uncovering the truth. He had assembled information on those who had run-ins with the reporter and were either released from or managed to get out of prison in some way. There were also a few other names that he was given to check on, in case he needed assistance with apprehending her.

This first gentleman was one of those who had recently managed to escape from prison after a two year incarceration, and was itching to get back into the action and get back into the good graces of his father. His father, apparently, was prominently known in the realm of the mob, gun running, and smuggling, in the state of Arizona.

A light wind whipped through his hair as he looked out over the ocean, turning his back to those on the pier. He could see the soft red glow of the sun as the last part of the fiery orb threatened to dip below the horizon. In a way, it was rather symbolic. Just as the sun was setting here over the vast ocean, soon he knew that the sun would set on the life of Amy Amanda Allen . . . but only after they had managed to retrieve the film and all of the answers from her that they wanted to know.

He fingered the packet in the pocket of his jacket as he waited, knowing that his information on the target was thorough. Even though the person he was about to meet had already encountered the reporter, he didn't want to leave anything to chance.

Turning back around, he could see that there were still a few people milling around the pier. Most were young couples, and a few families with older children. There were even a few people with fishing poles, trying to take advantage of the remaining daylight to get in a good catch before it got too dark.

He turned back to look out over the ocean, a light chill starting to fill the air. He drew the jacket closed around him, trying to ward off the coldness . . .

A tall figure walked up next to him, dressed in a well-cut brown suit with a matching tie. His wavy beach blonde hair and blue eyes made him look almost like he could have been a surfer, but the way he carried himself suggested otherwise. His face alone spoke volumes of the hardships that he had endured.

"You wanted to meet me, so here I am," he said, his voice clearly indicating that he didn't want to be out in the open . . . at least not like this.

Karl turned to look at him, carefully observing him just in case he may try to pull a fast one before he could even propose the job. "I have a proposition for you, Thomas Anderson . . . or should I say, Lieutenant Thomas Angel," he said in measured tones.

"What kind of a proposition?" Thomas wondered, wanting to get to the point quickly. The tone of his voice clearly indicated that he was in no mood for games.

The German pulled out the envelope from his pocket and handed it over. He gave the former Naval Lieutenant a chance to start leafing through the material before stating, "I need you to find someone . . a reporter for the Los Angeles Courier Express who recently returned here from a foreign assignment. She has a film with pictures of some sensitive documents, which need to remain classified. My employer wishes to recover that film and to speak with her."

Lt. Angel pulled out a picture of the reporter, his eyes widening slightly in recognition. He had the upper hand here, and maybe this could not only get him some extra cash to get back into the business again, but also make good with what he owed his father after the damage caused the last time around. "I had the unfortunate pleasure of meeting this reporter before. She hangs around a group of guys who are real trouble, and by now she's probably contacted them. This is going to cost you extra."

A small gust of wind blew up, whipping through their hair. The curiosity of Karl Schutz was piqued about this interesting twist. "Who are these men you speak of?"

"They call themselves the A-Team . . . escaped from a high security military stockade more than 10 years ago and have been on the run ever since. They're mercenaries, taking on bleeding-heart cases, sticking their noses into things where they're not wanted," Lt. Angel explained, recalling his unpleasant encounter with them a couple of years ago when he had been trying to distribute drugs for General Chao.

An evil gleam appeared in Schutz's eye as he heard the information. He knew that his Commissar would be extremely pleased if another threat could also be removed at the same time. "Very well . . . I shall triple your payment, with the remainder paid once you have delivered the reporter to our compound in East Germany. I trust that the first installment is to your satisfaction?"

"Yeah, but if Ms. Allen did contact the A-Team again, it's going to take an army just to get her away from them," Tommy noted, his tone clearly indicating his displeasure at the thought of having to tangle with Colonel Smith and his men again.

Hearing what was revealed only justified the second call he had made earlier. A small smirk appeared upon his face as he admitted, "I have prepared for such a contingency by contacting another individual who you will work with."

The look on Tommy's face clearly indicated that he wasn't too thrilled to hear that news. He would have preferred to pick his own team of people, whom he could trust implicitly, and he knew would follow his every command. "And just who is this other individual, Mr. Schutz?"

"You will find out soon enough, Lt Angel. Stay close to a phone. I will contact you within the next few hours, as soon as the other party agrees to our terms and payment," he informed the former Naval officer.

With that, Karl walked away from the pier, leaving Lt. Angel to ponder whether or not he should take this job. Even though he didn't like the possibility of having to work with someone he may not know, the need to get back into the business around Los Angeles was a lot more important to him . . . and that, in his mind, was enough to outweigh the risks if not only dealing with an unknown, but also having to likely encounter the A-Team once more.

* * *

WADSWORTH VETERANS ADMINISTRATION HOSPITAL

WESTWOOD

LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA

8:40PM PACIFIC TIME

After moments of fruitless searching, the Nobel Prize winner finally hit paydirt. Not only had he found the window to the room assigned to Captain H. M. Murdock, but it was also wide open.

Cautiously peering inside, the quantum physicist could see that the room was totally dark. The pilot was laying on a bed, his back propped up with a few fluffy pillows. The trademark bomber jacket that he wore earlier was draped over a post at the head of the bed, and the red flannel shirt was no longer tucked in. His fingers were interlaced together, his hands cupped behind his head in a way that his elbows pointed outward in a position cops typically had their suspects take when handcuffing them.

The room appeared to be empty, and Howling Mad's wrists were barren of silver shackles. He looked to be very relaxed.

Sam peered through the grate covering the window and spotted a couple of stand up video game cabinets, similar to what one might find at an arcade. Near the door was a sink with a mirror, and there was also a desk with books and papers strewn about, almost as if the pilot was neck deep into research of some sort. On the wall across from the bed was a dresser, and also a TV. In front of the television, he could see a small table that had an old Atari game console with a couple of joysticks. He inwardly smiled at that, recalling some of the old games from that system fondly like Asteroids, Space Invaders, Pong, Barnstorming and Breakout. He could also see three standing arcade cabinets, including air hockey, Pac Man, and another space game as well.

The light from the TV across the room danced playfully across the gentle features of Murdock's face, his curiosity filled eyes wide, greedily taking in the images presented. Sam instantly recognized the theme song to "Time Patrol," the classic series from his boyhood that chronicled the adventures of Captain Galaxy and Future Boy, and inspired his pursuit of time travel. That brought a smile to the physicist's face.

After a moment of indulging within a blissful memory that had not been purged from his mind by the swiss cheesed effect, Sam snapped out of his reverie. Not wanting to be overheard by the rest of the VA staff, he called out in a loud whisper, "Psst . . . Murdock."

The pilot's head turned toward the source of the new sound, stunned, but still very cautious. After being on the run for so long with the rest of the guys, he had ample reason for acting in such a fashion. Springing up out of bed, he made his way over to the window until he noticed who had called his name. "Hey there, Sam. I wasn't expectin' to see you so soon. Don't tell me that Hannibal already has a new assignment for us . . ."

"Uh, no. Actually, I came to talk to you alone," Sam pointed out as he watched the pilot remove the grate that covered the window and normally was designed to prevent patients from escaping. Inwardly, Sam grinned at this, realizing that Murdock likely had several ways to escape, even on his own if it became necessary. Despite the darkness, he could clearly make out the lettering on Murdock's t-shirt, which boasted, "This Space is Unoccupied."

The look on the Captain's face changed from lightheartedness to one of fear and defensiveness intermixed with concern. "You don't have to worry about me blowing things for you. Al explained everything . . ."

It was obvious to the Nobel Prize winner that Murdock had jumped to the wrong conclusion. "No, no, no . . . that's not it. I came because I need your help," Sam corrected.

"My help?" Murdock parroted. The holographic Albert Calavicci had told the pilot that Sam was going to need his help if he was going to get through this Leap, but he hadn't expected the person wearing Face's aura to show up so soon.

"Yeah . . . I'm a bit lost. Hannibal wants me to pick him up at his place in the morning and take him to a shoot, but the problem is that I don't know where he lives, or even where Face lives. Al went to check on some information, and I didn't ask him," Sam revealed.

"Do you have the map that's in Face's Vette?" the pilot questioned.

"I've got it right here," the physicist replied, pulling it out of the inside jacket pocket. He handed it over to the Captain, who immediately spread it out across the window sill.

"Faceman told me about this map. This M here is for me," Murdock noted, referring to the point on the map where the VA was. He then pointed out other notable locations as he continued, "He puts down a letter for each of us, along with a street number, for each place where we're staying. H is for Hannibal, B for BA, and F for Face. If there's an A and another number, that's the apartment or room number. An S is for a place where Face is currently running a scam, usually followed by what it is or an alias that he's been using. A phone number has the letter P in front of it, and the number to the mobile phones in the van and the Vette start off with CB and CF. Any numbers or locations that have an X over them are no longer being used."

Sam couldn't help but to roll his eyes. "Seven doctorates, and a Nobel Prize in quantum physics, and I couldn't figure that out," he remarked out of frustration at himself.

"It's something that we developed among ourselves during our time in Vietnam. The closest that the Army has to this are coordinates. To anybody looking at the map, unless they knew what things meant, there'd be no way they could figure out what all the numbers and letters stood for," Murdock explained, shrugging his shoulders a bit since this was something that seemed like second nature to them.

"Well, it certainly worked," Sam remarked.

"Most of the time, we don't even need it since we got all the numbers and addresses memorized . . . but Face keeps movin' 'bout, scamming different places to live, so he keeps this updated for himself," he added with a shrug of his shoulders. The Army pilot smiled, feeling some amount of satisfaction that the code still did as was intended. Now that the guys weren't around, and after what Al had told him, his curiosity was peaked. "Sam, what is it like . . . Leaping into other people and being them for a while?"

"It's kind of weird, actually. To everyone else around me, I appear as the person that I Leaped into . . . but I'm still me, Sam Beckett. I end up stumbling my way through most things," the physicist started. "I guess the times that it's the hardest for me is when I Leap into a woman."

"Al was telling me about some of those," Murdock noted.

"He would . . ." Sam shot back, not at all surprised by that. He knew that his holographic partner never failed to rib him about those particular Leaps, so he likely would have shared that information with the institutionalized A-Team member as well.

"I tried asking Al about this, but he couldn't explain it very well. Why is it that some people can see you as you, but others see you as the person you Leaped into?" the pilot wondered.

Sam shrugged his shoulders as he launched into an explanation, "The only ones who Al and I know can see me for me, and can also see and hear Al, are small children, animals, and those with mental disorders. Ziggy thinks it has something to do with the brain's Alpha state . . ."

"Which allows people to comprehend along a much higher plane of thinking, seeing things for what they actually are," Murdock completed.

The quantum physicist looked totally shocked at the response from the crazed pilot. The flash of brilliance that he just demonstrated was far from expected. "How did you know that?"

Launching into an English accent, the pilot commented, "When you've been here as long I have, dear boy, you come to have an understanding of the human psyche that some doctors are unable to master." Switching back to his normal Texan accent, he questioned, "So, what did Albert tell you about the Faceman?"

"A few details, like my name . . . his name is Lieutenant Templeton Peck," Sam corrected, finding it strange to be revealing this to a man who had been declared insane by the state. "He's second in command of the A-Team, supply officer, a wizard in math, an orphan, and a con man who's legally changed his name five times."

"What else did he tell you?" Murdock asked.

"He mentioned the Corvette, and this black book that Face apparently has with the names and numbers of his female acquaintances . . ." the physicist started, trailing off as he realized that there wasn't a whole heck of a lot of info. "Um, there's really not much else that he told me, at least not about Face."

"Let me clue you in on a few things about the Faceman. He is definitely a ladies' man," Howlin' Mad admitted with a bit of a smile. "If a woman ever turns Face down, you have to wonder if she's got water on the brain or something. Anytime he wants anything, all he has to do is flash his smile, turn on the charm, and people just melt right into his arms. Face can think quickly on his feet, changing course at the last possible second to accommodate what a mark is doing, which is part of what makes him such a good con man."

"I don't know the first thing about how to scam someone . . ." Sam tried to protest.

"Don't worry about it. When that time comes, the guys would have busted me out, so I can help you," Murdock noted, trying to reassure Sam as much as he possibly could. He could see, in his eyes, just how uncertain that he was . . . that he'd be able to pull this off. He paused for a moment and then continued, "Faceman loves wearing suits . . . he wouldn't be caught dead in jeans and a t-shirt, unless he can find some way to make that look stylish and high-class. He tends to complain, even whine, whenever something he's scammed for his own benefit winds up being used by the Team."

"Whine?" Sam parroted, trying not to roll his eyes at that one.

"Uh, yeah," the Texan admitted before continuing with his explanation, "but he's got a good reason though since we've ruined a few of those scams, getting him kicked out of some of his penthouses. He really complains when his expensive suits gets ruined or Hannibal has him put his Vette in the middle of a situation where it can get shot up. He very rarely lets Hannibal drive the thing . . . that's how protective he is."

Something still didn't quite add up, at least in Sam's mind. "Why shouldn't I . . . or doesn't Face let Hannibal drive the 'Vette?"

"Well," Murdock chuckled a bit. "Let's just say that Hannibal drives even crazier than I fly. He doesn't even have to be chased by the MPs, and he'll try to get a car up as fast as he can. He's gotten the 'Vette up over 140, just with a run to Hamburger Heaven."

"Gives a whole new meaning to the term fast food," Sam remarked with a bit of a grin. Inwardly, just hearing that about Hannibal's driving kind of made him wonder who was really the crazy one in the unit . . . if it really was Murdock, the institutionalized pilot that he was talking to, or maybe if it was Hannibal. He had a strange feeling that he likely was going to find that out first hand before he'd end up Leaping out.

Murdock caught onto the pun that Sam had threw and couldn't help but to laugh. For a guy to hold seven doctorates, as Albert had told him, he thought the guy was going to be stuffy and uptight, not capable of the humor he just displayed. Not only did it catch the Texan off guard, but it really struck him as being funny. It made him realize that just as Sam had to learn a lot about Face, he had a lot to learn about Dr. Samuel Beckett.

Once he had regained his composure, the pilot added, "Oh, make sure you carry around plenty of cigars."

"Cigars?" Sam parroted, curious as to why he needed to have cigars on him. Al hadn't mentioned anything about Face smoking cigars. "Why cigars?"

"Ol' Hannibal loves cigars. It helps him think," Murdock grinned, before shrugging his shoulders a bit. "We've been 'round him so long that we hardly even notice the smell, but we sure do notice how his plans don't work as well when he isn't smokin' one."

Sam simply nodded. "Al told me that Hannibal was the one who got him started smoking cigars. How'd you two meet up, anyways?"

Murdock went over to sit on the edge of his bed, but still could see Sam at the window. "It's, uh, a bit of a long story. Albert and I both had a weekend pass, and, well, I was in a bit of a mess . . ."


	8. Chapter 6: A Chance Encounter

_So you're Murdock, huh? I sure heard a lot about you._

_You heard about me? I don't know about me. What do you know about me?_

_Well, two tours in 'Nam, silver star, three unit citations, wounded twice, best damn Huey chopper pilot we had. _

_- Bounty Hunter and Murdock, "Bounty"_

* * *

_When I was 16, back in the days when dinosaurs ruled the planet, I was a Golden Gloves regional champ._

_- Al, "Right Hand of God"_

**Chapter 6: A Chance Encounter**

**Flashback**

FRIDAY, AUGUST 13, 1967

DA NANG OPEN OFFICERS MESS

DA NANG, VIETNAM

9:15PM INDOCHINA TIME

A male figure with dark hair strolled into the DOOM Club within the middle of downtown Da Nang. Even though it was January, a cool night breeze provided little relief from the brutal heat and humidity. Beads of sweat dotted his brow as he looked around to see if he could find a familiar face.

Strolling up to the bar, he straightened his hand painted bomber jacket as he climbed onto a bar seat. It was a bit big on him, but very comfortable . . . almost like a security blanket. He had bought it from a merchant in Da Nang in his first shore leave after starting his second tour . . . one that he hoped would be his last before returning home to his wife, Beth.

Lieutenant Al Calavicci watched as the bartender served a couple of customers at the other end of the counter. He was short and definitely native to this land, mainly based on the tanned skin, the black hair, and squinty dark eyes that seemed to be in constant motion, quickly darting back and forth almost as if he was looking for trouble to start at any given second. His clothing was simple and black, but not the type worn by the VietCong when they were out on patrol. If anything, he appeared to be someone who could disappear into the shadows when necessary.

After finishing with his other customers, he walked up to the recently seated customer and asked in broken English, "What get you, G.I.?"

"A beer," Al replied simply, putting the money for the drink down on the counter.

The Naval pilot watched the bartender pull out a frosted glass and fill it up from the tap to where the foam was peaking just over the rim. He returned to Al, gently put the glass down in front of him, took the payment, and then moved on to the next customer.

Lieutenant Calavicci picked up the cold glass and took a sip, savoring the flavor. Although some soldiers simply used Vietnam as an excuse to get away from their parents and party, Al took the assignment very seriously. He had already seen some good soldiers die . . . kids who didn't know better. Even innocent Vietnamese civilians, if there was such a thing, sometimes met with a gruesome fate if they found themselves in the right place at the wrong time.

The sound of a loud crash drew the attention of most of the bar occupants to the situation brewing. A muscular Marine Sergeant with blonde hair now held the remnants of a beer bottle, holding it up as if it was a weapon. He had a tall lanky man cornered. The tall man, like Al, was in civilian clothes, but he wore a pair of tan slacks, a t-shirt, an unbuttoned flannel shirt, and a dark blue baseball hat. His brown hair was showing very slight signs of receding, but his big brown eyes were filled with fear.

Two Marine Corporals, an African American and a Latino, flanked the Sergeant as he spoke, "I've had it with you, skinny boy. I'm going to break you like a toothpick. Now you're gonna pay . . ."

"But . . ." the tall man sputtered, squirming like a little kid who waited too long to tell their parents that they had to go to the bathroom. Frantically, he looked around for some type of salvation . . .

Normally he wouldn't have gotten involved, but Al had become enraged by what was transpiring. Having spent some time within the southeastern US, he knew a lynch mob when he saw one. Slamming his glass of beer down on the bar counter, some of the golden liquid sloshed over the rim, hitting Al's hand . . . but he was so focused on breaking up the impending fight that he didn't notice. He marched up to the men and demanded, "What the hell is going on here?"

The Sergeant and the other two men turned around to glance at the person who dared to interrupt them. Al could clearly make out the last name of the soldiers emblazoned on their uniforms in green and black. The Sergeant was Taylor, the African American was Johnson, and the Latino was Rodriguez. Taylor laughed curtly at Al, "Get lost old man. Don't go sticking your nose in where it doesn't belong."

Al Calavicci's blood started to boil as he snapped in rage, "When it's three against one, it does become my business."

"I said get lost, old man," the Sergeant repeated.

"Sergeant Taylor! You would be strongly advised to watch your tone with me. I may not be in uniform, but as a Lieutenant I still outrank you. Now answer my question before I decide to report you to your CO for insubordination," Al lashed out fiercely.

At the mention of the higher rank, Taylor stiffened and showed a bit of reserve, but the anger was still clearly present on his face. "Sir, we were talking about how hard we've been having it in 'Nam, and this guy jumps in saying that he's had it harder than the rest of us, and starts in on some wild stories that sound like nothing but just fantasy."

"That's a lie!" the tall lanky victim protested with his Texan accent shining through. "I was mindin' my own business and they were the ones who came up to me, ragging on me that I couldn't have been in this war for as long as I have and still look like some bright-eyed kid from right out of high school."

Al turned to the person the three men had been harassing. Almost instantly, he could tell that there was something different about this individual . . . something special. Al could see it within his eyes. "What's your name and rank, son? And what division are you assigned to?"

"First Lieutenant H. M. Murdock, Army Special Forces," the tall man revealed.

The Sergeant and the two Corporals with him looked totally stunned. Al could almost see a hint of fear gnawing within the eyes of the three men as they realized that their victim was of a higher rank. "But sir . . ." Taylor stammered.

Al knew, just as anyone else, that some sections of Special Forces had it worse than anyone. That was no fabrication. They were the elite, often sent on suicide missions. "I think you men owe Lieutenant Murdock an apology . . ."

Although it seemed that the other two wanted to apologize, Sergeant Taylor did not. He just walked away, exiting the bar. The look on his face suggested that this was far from being over . . .

Turning to the lanky man, Al asked, "Are you okay, Lieutenant?"

"You shouldn't have got yourself involved. Those guys are just lookin' four trouble . . ." Murdock stated somewhat coldly. It wasn't that he was ungrateful for the help he just received, but he tended to wear his pride on his sleeve . . . much like his emotions sometimes . . . and he really hated having to let someone else get involved in his problems.

"I don't know about you, but where I come from three against one is hardly a fair fight. These guys will be lucky if they get to keep their ranks and have to do KP duty for a week," Al noted strongly, still upset by what had transpired.

"No, you go reportin' these guys and they're just gonna want to get back at me, and they'll also try to do the same with you. It's just better to let this drop," Murdock insisted, wanting to head off a potential problem before it got any worse.

"Well, at least let me buy you a beer," Al offered, glancing toward the door of the DOOM Club just in case Taylor got second thoughts and would want to try again so soon, before turning his attention back to the guy he had just helped out.

"I don't know . . ." Murdock hesitated. It wasn't that he didn't want to pass up a chance to grab a beer, but after what had just happened, he couldn't afford to let his guard down . . . and alcohol would certainly do that once he had a few beers.

"Are you waiting for someone?" Al wondered

"You could say that," the Army Lieutenant replied cryptically, glancing toward the door for a moment. His friend had a thing for making an entrance sometimes, but he had never known him to be this late before unless there was something big going on. But, he did ask Murdock to meet him here, so there was no way that he wasn't going to show up.

"Then at least let me buy you a beer while you're waiting," Al offered again with a bit of a warm smile.

"Okay," Murdock conceded, although his voice clearly indicated that he wasn't very trusting of anyone after what had just happened. It wasn't that he didn't trust the guy who had just kept him from being pummeled by three Marines, but there was just more to things that even he didn't want to go into. Or rather things that he couldn't go into if he valued his own life, and the lives of others.

"By the way," Al started as he led Murdock to the bar and put out money for the bartender, "my name is Albert Calavicci, but my friends call me Bingo."

"Bingo?" Murdock parroted with a raised eyebrow. "Sounds like a pilot call sign to me."

Al quirked his head inquisitively. "How'd you know?"

"Lucky guess," Murdock noted, picking up the frosted glass of beer that had just been placed in front of him. "'Sides, I'm a pilot myself. Flew for the Thunderbirds before being shipped over here. My call sign is Howlin' Mad."

"So that's what the H. M. stands for," Al assumed, knowing that most call signs were often based off of either a pilot's name or something that they did. They were often fun and meant to be light hearted, even teasing, although the unspoken rule generally was that if someone liked or complained about their call sign, they'd usually be saddled with another one they likely wouldn't like and would probably stick even more. Of course, he had earned his call sign after spending a night with triplets . . .

"Not really, but I'd rather give that out than my real name," Murdock shrugged, almost as if he was ashamed of what his parents had called him. He had been teased mercilessly as a kid over his name, and with how some were bullying him even in another country, he didn't want just anyone to know in case they decided to use it to further their bullying. Call it an occupational hazard . . .

"Looks like we've got something in common, then," Al said with a smile. "How long have you been flying?"

"Since I was 'bout five, after my mom died. My grandpa was a pilot . . . one of the best crop dusters around Eagle Pass. He took me up with him all the time and started teachin' me. How 'bout you?" the Army Lieutenant wondered before taking a swig of his beer.

"I always wanted to do something with my life, and I was fascinated with flying. I enrolled in the Naval Academy, spent part of my studies at MIT, and then got into the Navy's aviation program," Al replied, grabbing the glass of beer he put down earlier and took a sip.

Murdock surveyed the bar, almost as if he was expecting more trouble, and then glanced at his watch. Al couldn't help but to notice this and questioned, "Is your friend late?"

"Yeah, he went to see the base CO about a different problem I'm havin'. He's been late before, but never this late," Murdock noted with a tinge of worry. It likely meant that the news wasn't going to be good. "Do you have someone you're waiting for?"

"Chip, my tail-pipe buddy from my Naval Academy days . . . he's also serving over here, but wasn't sure if he could get a pass for this weekend. He said he'd meet me here if he did," Al explained.

"Must be nice to have a friend like that. You must be a lucky guy," Murdock remarked.

Al was somewhat shocked by what the Army officer had just said. The statement seemed to suggest that Murdock didn't have any friends . . . and yet his tone indicated that he yearned for that missing piece within his life.

"I don't think I'm that lucky," Al commented, thinking about all of the hardship he endured while growing up. The orphanage, his sister Trudy, his dad . . .

Murdock finished off his beer and set the glass on the bar. "Well, I'm gonna step outside for a minute and see if I can spot him."

"Want me to come out there with you?" Al wondered, finishing off the last of the golden liquid within his own glass. Marines like Taylor certainly didn't seem like they would be scared off that easily, so there was still a pretty good chance they were out there, lurking, and ready for a chance to get even with Murdock.

"Nah, I won't be too long. When he gets here, I'll introduce you to him," Murdock replied, getting up from his seat at the bar.

Al watched the tall lanky Texan walk out the door to the establishment. An ominous feeling settled at the pit of his stomach, seeming almost like a ton of bricks with a few butterflies using them as a landing strip. His gut told him that Murdock just blindly hopped out of the frying pan and straight into the fire.

Not wanting to see that Sergeant bully Murdock around any more, Al got up and made his way to the door. Stepping out into the muggy night air, he could not see the pilot . . . unusual since he had indicated that he would be right back inside.

Al's senses heightened a notch as the sensation grew stronger. He took a few steps along the street until he spotted an alley. Voices emanated from it, but two stood out above the others . . . Murdock and Sergeant Taylor. Taylor and his band of fluzies were probably going to pummel Murdock until he either gave in to them or was killed. Considering Al's perception of how strong-willed Murdock was, the latter seemed more probable to happen unless he intervened. He edged closer to the entrance to the alley, ready to jump in once it became necessary.

* * *

"You and I have some unfinished business, toothpick," Taylor sneered, forcefully shoving Murdock against a brick wall.

"Was what happened back in the bar business? I should have brought my tie," Murdock cracked, a goofy grin spreading across his face. He was out-manned and out-matched against these three guys, yet he still managed to toss out zingers. It was guys like this that he enjoyed getting riled up, since when they got angry they didn't always think straight.

"Keep it up, smart mouth, and you'll be diggin' your grave," Taylor countered, punching the Texan strongly in the gut.

'Never let them see you suffer,' was the first words that flashed through Murdock's mind as the blow came. His CO was right about that . . . suffering equaled weakness, which an enemy could exploit. He didn't grimace or cry out in pain, but he did have the wind knocked out of him for a moment as the hit forced him to double over.

After catching his breath again, Murdock looked up at his assailant and remarked, "Gee, I didn't know you cared."

The Texan steeled himself for another blow, but it was never delivered. Instead, his eyes widened when he looked upon the source of the new voice in this melee. "Hey! I thought you bozos learned your lesson once already! Now leave him the hell alone and get out of here before I call in the MPs."

Murdock had not expected Albert Calavicci to be the one standing at the entrance of the alley, trying to break up the soiree before it got out of hand. He had to blink, just to make sure that it wasn't an illusion or some trick his mind was playing on him. Although he had earned and lived up to his call sign of Howling Mad, Murdock tended to wonder if the Navy Lieutenant was the crazy one in this situation.

"I told you before to get lost, old man, and I ain't gonna tell you again," Taylor replied with growing contempt.

"I'm not moving until you let Lieutenant Murdock go and you tell me what's really going on here," Al demanded, sensing that there was something more to this impending fight than just someone bragging about their hardships in Vietnam.

"It's your funeral, old man," Taylor commented. Turning to his cohorts, he barked out, "Johnson, Rodriguez, you guys take him. Toothpick here is mine."

Murdock knew that he couldn't sit idly by and let himself get beaten to a pulp, or allow Al to meet the same fate. He knew his own limitations to fighting and guessed that the Navy Lieutenant wouldn't be able to handle two men at the same time.

The Army officer was actually a bit shocked when he saw Al set himself into a classic boxing stance, and start bouncing and weaving around like Cassius Clay . . . completely unaware that Al was once a Golden Gloves boxing champion.

Murdock was carefully watching, waiting for his chance to act . . . studying the events taking place, biding his time for just the right moment. Having Taylor sic his two lap dogs provided just that opportunity . . .

The Special Forces member noted that Taylor had made a grievous mistake. He seemed to be more interested in watching his men fight Al Calavicci that he almost completely ignored the Army Lieutenant. As soon as Johnson threw the first punch at Al, Murdock took advantage of the moment by laying into Taylor with a solid hit of his own.

The Sergeant had not expected the Texan to retaliate, especially not by throwing a punch. He was caught off guard and went down from the blow, even though he was more built than the lanky man.

Murdock scrambled to his feet, watching . . . reading his opponent's movements. With the training he had received over the years, he had gotten really good with reading people and being able to tell what they were going to do. He had to try and hold him off long enough until the cavalry could arrive. The only flaw he made was glancing over to see how Al was faring . . .

Sergeant Taylor, his eyes and face filled with rage, was now brandishing a knife. He slashed at Murdock, cutting him across his left palm and drawing blood. The pilot instantly and instinctively backpedaled, grabbing the wounded hand with his uninjured one. Another assault with the knife broke skin on Murdock's right forearm, coming very close to nicking an artery.

A dark looked filled Murdock's eyes as he glared at Sergeant Taylor. The Army officer harbored something deep down inside . . . something very dark, almost sinister, brought on by a traumatic experience from his childhood. It was a side filled with hatred and rage, making the normally gentle and playful Texan capable of murdering in cold blood without scruples to stand in the way. It was a portion of himself that Murdock feared and took great lengths to bury deep down inside . . . to hide it so it wouldn't surface and pose a danger to others, including those that he cared for, and especially within the jungles of Vietnam.

Without regard for his bleeding wounds or the pain it was causing him, Murdock lunged at his attacker. If he could get control of the knife, he knew that he could gain control of the fight . . .

* * *

Despite the fact that it was two against one, Al was holding his ground. He had gotten lucky. The two goons that had been sicced on him hadn't gotten their acts together to put up a unified attack. He knew that, if they did, he would be in serious trouble.

Taking a chance, Al looked over to where Murdock was. He hadn't expected the Army officer to put up a fight against a stronger opponent. He was taken aback by not only the look in Murdock's eyes, but also the fact that he was now injured.

That was enough to distract Al. With his attention drawn from his own fight, Johnson and Rodriguez were able to regroup. Together, they made their assault, one swinging high and the other going low. The two blows felled the Golden Gloves boxer, sending him crumpling to the ground, doubled over and stunned, with the wind knocked out of him.

Al managed to look up, steeling himself for the next round of blows, when he saw a gloved fist make contact with Johnson. Another man had joined the fight, one who's uniform had the markings of an Army Colonel. "Is this a private party, or can anyone join in on the fun?" he joked darkly.

Reinvigorated by a new surge of adrenaline brought on by getting some assistance, Al scrambled to his feet and started laying in heavily to Rodriguez. The Latino hadn't expected interference from another individual, let alone the vigor of the attack from the Navy pilot. A few good hits from Lieutenant Calavicci sent him down to the ground, stunned and on the verge of losing consciousness.

No sooner had he finished off his opponent, Al looked over at the person who had joined in on the fight. He was an older male with icey blue eyes that seemed to sparkle, and silver-white hair. Whoever this person was, he expertly felled the person he had squared off against and looked over to Murdock.

Al also looked over to where the Army officer was, only to see that he wasn't doing so well in his fight. Taylor had gotten the upper hand again, forcing Murdock back in a corner. The Texan's eyes were filled with fear, much like that of a caged animal . . . but Al knew just how dangerous caged animals could actually be.

"Taylor!" Al called out, hoping to draw the Sergeant's attention away from Murdock.

"Well, well, well," the Colonel started. "I knew you would have tried something like this. You're too stupid and bull headed to know when you're in over your head."

"Smith . . . I should have known you would have come running once you found out that one of your men were in trouble," Taylor spat with defiance despite the change in the situation.

Al noted that Murdock was starting to inch away from the spot where he had been. He had to buy time for Murdock . . . "Sounds like you don't know what trouble really is, Taylor."

Taylor glanced back to see the Texan try to edge out from the corner, and turned back menacingly. He moved to attack Murdock again with the knife he held in his hands, only to have a gloved hand firmly grasp one of his wrists and draw it back . . . and another set of fists swiftly moved in to deliver several quick blows, including an undercut to the chin.

The white-haired Colonel got in a couple of good shots of his own, disarming the Sergeant in the process. The last blow knocked Taylor unceremoniously to the ground, allowing the two men that had come to Murdock's rescue to stand over him. "The next time you have a problem with one of my men, you come to me about it. Attack one of them again and I will rain down on you so hard that you'll be buried so deep within the stockade that you won't see the light of day again for a very long time," Colonel Smith threatened.

Taylor scrambled out of the alley, the two men who had also been part of the assault following closely behind. No sooner had they disappeared from sight, Al rushed over to Murdock's side. Colonel Smith also did the same, asking, "You okay, kid?"

"Just gotta get patched up, Hannibal, but I'll live," Murdock replied, his voice now clearly etched with pain.

"I would have gotten here sooner if I could have . . ." Smith said almost apologetically.

"I know . . ." Murdock told him, grimacing from the pain.

Al moved in closer to inspect the Texan's injuries, only to see that the cuts were still bleeding fairly good. Since Murdock's flannel shirt was already ripped up by the knife cuts, he figured that it would be better to use that to control the bleeding until Murdock could return to a base and see the medics. He gingerly cut off a couple of strips and then wrapped them around the wounds, careful not to tie them too tight.

Hannibal gave Al an approving nod, his eyes sparkling . . . almost laughing. "You did pretty well yourself there, kid . . . holding off two of them at once. I'm impressed," Colonel Smith told the Naval pilot. "I think that deserves a cigar . . ." Hannibal said, pulling out one of his fine Cuban El Capitan's and handing it over to Al.

Al accepted it from the Colonel, somewhat floored by the gesture. It wasn't something that he had expected at all, especially when one considered all of the rivalry that often existed between the different branches of the military. "Thanks . . . but I don't smoke cigars," Al mentioned.

Hannibal simply laughed, and then flashed a smile that could practically light up the whole alley. "Keep it. Besides, it's a great time to start."

Murdock realized that introductions were in order and decided to start them off. Turning first to Hannibal, he gestured to where Al was and said, "This is Naval Lieutenant Albert Calavicci. He saw those guys try to jump me in the bar and broke it up." Turning to Al, Murdock told him, "This is Colonel John Hannibal Smith, my CO and leader of the Special Forces group known as the A-Team."

Al was absolutely floored by what he had just heard. The A-Team was famous in Vietnam, so it was almost like standing in the presence of a Hollywood movie icon. He stood there, totally speechless and in total awe of the two men in front of him.

"Murdock, I think we'd better talk alone. I'll meet you inside the bar," Hannibal noted in a serious tone, leaving the two pilots alone in the alley.

A wild thought filled the mind of Al Calavicci, a decision that was almost instinctive. He shrugged out of the leather bomber jacket and held it out to Murdock as he offered, "Here . . . I want you to have this."

The lanky Texan was stunned by the gesture. "I . . . I can't take this."

"I bought this from a merchant here in Da Nang a couple of months ago and had them hand paint the city along with the year that I'm going to complete my tours. It's been kind of a good luck charm, in a way . . . and good luck seems to be something you could use right now. Besides, it's a bit big on me," Al explained.

"Howard Madej . . ." Murdock murmured as he grasped the bomber jacket, almost as if it had become a security blanket.

"What?" Al asked, totally thrown off by what Howling Mad had just said.

"You asked me what H. M. stood for . . . that's my name. I'm not proud of it . . ." Murdock told him, clearly embarrassed. .Based on the mournful look on his face, it was clear that he didn't like what his name was, much less sharing it with anyone.

"I think Howie is a great name," Al told him with a smile.

The Texan was clearly stunned by what the Naval pilot had told him. He never expected that kind of a reaction from anyone when it came to his name. He looked up, his spirits obviously brightened based on the smile that crossed his lips. "Albert . . . you wanna come inside for a drink?" Murdock wondered.

"I wouldn't miss it for the world . . ." Al replied, putting his arm around Murdock's shoulders as the two of them made their way back into the bar.

* * *

"Murdock, I need to talk to you alone," Hannibal started, his voice taking on a serious and almost dark tone.

"Whatever it is, Colonel, you can tell me with Al here," Murdock mentioned. He didn't want to make it seem like Hannibal was pushing Lieutenant Calavicci away after how Al had helped him out twice in one day when he could have looked the other way. Trust was something that he didn't give out very easily due to how things were when he grew up, but once he did trust someone it was something that lasted a lifetime.

"I talked to Morrison about your situation. The guys that processed your paperwork screwed up royally, sending you to Special Forces instead of the Air Corps," Hannibal stated to explain, pulling out a cigar and lighting it.

Al rolled his eyes upon hearing that. With his experience in the Navy, he knew all about paperwork snafus, especially with flight plans that were supposed to have been filed, but either got lost or misplaced somehow, which often kept pilots from getting their time in the air. Even he had missed a few training exercises because of this very fact. But, hearing this revelation also reminded him of something. Murdock had mentioned that he had flown with the Thunderbirds before Vietnam . . . so if he wasn't flying missions now, there had to be some reason why, and apparently paperwork is what got in the way.

Murdock let out a sigh. "I kinda figured something like that was gonna turn up sooner or later, Colonel. Things were just goin' too smooth after we got our kinks worked out," he noted somewhat glumly. Truthfully, he had grown to respect Hannibal tremendously, and there were a lot of times when they were so much alike with how they thought.

"Isn't there a shortage of pilots right now?" Al questioned, trying to still piece together how a screw up like this could have happened in the first place. A guy who flew for the Thunderbirds shouldn't have been sent to Special Forces, to fight on the ground. Murdock would have been a lot more valuable in the air. He pulled out the cigar that Hannibal had given him back in the alley and wedged it between his teeth. Al nodded his thanks to the Colonel, who reached over to light it for him.

Hannibal nodded to Al, and then took a puff of his own cigar. "That's exactly why this is all happening, and Morrison said that there's nothing he or anyone else can do to block this. I'm sorry, Murdock. I know you just got in country a couple of months ago and onto my unit, but they're reassigning you for some kinda training and repurposing BS as of December 1st," he explained, sounding sincerely apologetic, and with good reason. Even though the first few weeks after Murdock had joined the unit was rough, he had come to terms with things and the two of them had developed a very strong rapport. He thought that he was letting a member of his unit down by not being able to keep Murdock on the team.

Murdock just sat there in silence, looking down into a fresh glass of beer, his expression revealing nothing about the feelings he held deep down inside. He felt hurt, not at Hannibal, but more so with how his government was screwing him around . . . first wanting to toss him aside because he got in trouble once too often with that mouth of his, and then once he started turning things around and improving under the guidance of his CO they wanted to take that away from him. He was starting to think that he either someone or something was intent on making his life miserable, he was just having a horrible string of bad luck, or he was simply jinxed. The only thing that felt right to him, that felt safe, was when he was up in the air . . .

Al puffed on his cigar as he looked over to Murdock, noticing how glum he appeared to be. He had to really like his commanding officer . . . this Hannibal . . . in order to react the way he did. Some guys got shipped around all over 'Nam, getting a new CO every few months, so for anyone to develop a good relationship with their CO, that was a rare thing. It was even rarer if someone didn't want to transfer out of a unit . . .

After a moment, Hannibal broke the silence, knowing his Lieutenant too well. He was determined not to let this die without a fight, and he wanted to make sure that fact was well known. "I'm not about to give up on this, Murdock. I can take your case to a higher level and see if there's any way they can block this. This isn't the first time the military's screwed up, but that's no reason for them to treat you like this."

Murdock looked up from his glass, glancing intently at his commanding officer. It wasn't a look filled with anger or shock, but instead filled with compassion from a man who was resigned to accept his fate. He knew that Hannibal would have ways of blocking this if he could, but the fact that he couldn't meant that it had to come from higher up . . . and that unsettled the Texan to no end. But, if it did come from higher up, then continuing to pursue the matter would be risky.

"No, Colonel," Murdock started to say in a bit of a defeated tone. "I don't want you ruining your military career by fighting to keep me in your unit. I'll accept the reassignment."

"Are you sure about this?" Al asked, hoping that Murdock wasn't making a huge mistake. He only got a nod out of the lanky officer in return.

Hannibal let out a sigh, hating to see Murdock like this. He loved the Texan's antics, his wit, and even his one-liners that often riled up others even though it often got him into trouble. He loved how full of life Murdock often was, and hated to see him so down. "Murdock, don't worry about my military career. They could bust me down to Lieutenant, and I'd still fight to give all you guys the best opportunities, especially you. When this is all sorted out, I'm going to try and get you back into the unit, even if you're on attached duty. I'm not done fighting yet, and don't you stop fighting either."

Murdock took Hannibal's words to heart. He knew, from the short time he had been on his unit, that there was more than one way to fight. Although the Colonel was very fond of being direct and taking the front door tactics, there were often other methods that involved more subtle approaches. That was something he was beginning to appreciate . . . knowing when to fight, how hard to fight, what methods to take when fighting, and even sometimes who you needed to and not to fight.

Raising his glass of beer, Murdock gave a bit of a knowing smile as he offered a toast, "Here's to fighting the good fight."

Hannibal flashed a smile that lit up the room like a thousand megawatts, his crystal blue eyes twinkling as he clinked his glass against Murdock's. "And to when plans come together," he added jovially.

Al joined in, clinking his glass against theirs as he added, "And to good cigars."

All three men grinned before taking a swig of their beers, any problems that happened just a few moments ago washed away in the froth of their alcoholic beverages.


	9. Chapter 7: Escape Plans

_How's it going, Jack?_

_Yeah. John! What are you doing here?_

_We'll talk later._

_But Colonel Decker will be here looking for ya._

_Hm. I'd be disappointed if he wasn't._

_- Hannibal and Jack Harmon, "Blood, Sweat, and Cheers"_

* * *

_If I'd have known I'd have to do this much running, I would have worn my cross training shoes._

_- Al, "Unchained"_

**Chapter 7: Escape Plans**

MONDAY, MAY 12, 1986

WADSWORTH VETERANS ADMINISTRATION HOSPITAL

WESTWOOD

LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA

8:43PM PACIFIC TIME

A light breeze drifted through the air, adding a chill to the late spring evening. The skies had already darkened, overtaking any remaining sunlight that had tried valiantly to remain visible. The lights from the city cast a reddish glow along the horizon, drowning out the twinkle from all but the brightest stars that hung within the night sky.

The lights within the parking lot cast a stark contrast to the darkness of the surrounding area, cutting through it like a knife. Cars, of various makes and models, sat within the lot and seemed to glisten underneath the artificial glow almost as if it was an outdoor car showroom. But, it was one car in particular that remained the center of attention . . .

Hannibal lowered the binoculars and glanced at the face of his watch on the inside of his left wrist. Setting the binoculars on the dash, he reached into the back of his waistband and pulled out his Smith and Wesson 639, checking the slide on it and then double checking the ammo that was already loaded in it Letting out a breath that he didn't realize that he had been holding, he murmured, "Two minutes. He's got two minutes, and then I'm going in after him."

BA nodded as his muscles tensed, the scowl on his face deepening. He was worried, just like Hannibal was . . . but the muscular Sergeant was never one for patience. Hannibal had always tried to encourage him to embrace it as there were plenty of times when timing was everything and one had to be patient in order to make sure that something happened at just the right point for things to work as planned.

Then again, most of Hannibal's plans never really worked exactly as he had envisioned it . . .

Due to his nature, BA would rather just go in and bust some heads rather than waiting around as they were doing now. In this case, there wasn't anything to fight . . . except for maybe Murdock's demons. Why Hannibal was even giving the pilot's crazy talk any kind of weight was beyond him, especially when it came to Face.

Then again, Face was acting a bit strange . . .

"I don' like this, Hannibal," BA expressed, his own concern growing to where it was very apparent through the tone of his normally gruff voice.

Hannibal gave a slight nod and then sighed, "I know, BA". Checking his watch again, time seemed to creep by slowly . . . slower than normal. Then again, time was a funny thing. When one anticipated something, it often seemed like time could stretch on forever. On the opposite end of the spectrum, when someone was working on something and not paying attention to the time, it often flew by . . . often much faster than expected.

Fortunately, time seemed to be on their side . . .

From where they sat, they had a clear view of a line of green sedans that pulled into the parking lot. The artificial light danced upon the vehicles as they rolled to a stop, surrounding the Corvette belonging to Templeton Peck. Each car bore a marking on the door indicating that the vehicle belonged to the military police, and there was a set of mars lights perched across the roof.

The doors to the vehicles opened, and several men stepped out into the light. Each one wore olive drab uniforms, which was instantly recognizable. Most wore helmets, emblazoned with red and white stripes, with the letters MP clearly stamped upon it. They moved closer to inspect the red-striped Corvette.

"Sir, it's Peck's car alright," one of the MPs shouted loud enough that they could be heard from BA's van.

As soon as those words were spoken, two more car doors opened from a remaining green sedan. Two figures emerged from it, wearing green uniforms. But, instead of the MP helmets, they each wore a green hat upon their heads that looked similar to a baseball cap. One was an African-American with a mustache, and the other was an older Caucasian. They both made their way towards the 'Vette before the older man called out in a grovelly voice that Hannibal clearly recognized, "Set up a perimeter. Nobody gets in or out of the lot. Washington, Anderson, Thompson, you're with me. We will make a sweep inside the VA itself."

"Oh great," Hannibal moaned dismally. "Decker. Fulbright must have gotten him replacement vehicles faster than I thought."

Thankfully, the ten minute deadline that Hannibal had set up for Face hadn't passed yet. If it had, and he tried to go after the con man to find out why he was paying a late night visit to Murdock, he realized then both he and Face would have been in danger of being caught.

"Faceman's gonna be a sittin' duck. Decker'll catch him for sure. What are we gonna do, Hannibal?" BA questioned.

"Simple. We give him a new target . . ." Hannibal mused thoughtfully with a distinct sparkle in his eyes. He was on the Jazz, and it was very apparent when he glanced over to the Sergeant

"Right . . ." BA droned. A small smile crept across his face as he knew full well what the Colonel had in mind. His hand automatically grabbed the key for the ignition and turned it, causing the engine to roar to life. The burly mechanic then shifted the van into gear and stomped on the gas pedal, causing the tires to smoke before it finally got enough traction to accelerate.

The van took off like a shot, screeching through the parking lot and right past the MPs who seemed to be pretty startled by the sudden appearance of the A-Team. "After them, men!" Decker ordered as everyone scrambled to get back into their vehicles and chase them, hoping that this time they'd have more luck in capturing their elusive foes and not have any more wrecked vehicles.

* * *

From off in the distance, another green sedan waited in the shadows. The passenger in the front seat lowered his binoculars after he watched the A-Team van speed out of the parking lot, followed by Decker and his men. "Idiots," Fulbright remarked, sounding pretty disgusted at the turn of events. He hoped that Decker would have left at least one unit behind, but that wasn't the case.

Now it was up to him . . .

From what he had seen, Peck had left his Corvette in the parking lot and gone toward the building before Decker even showed up . . . but it never appeared as if Peck had returned to his vehicle or gotten into the van. That could mean only one thing. The A-Team wasn't all together in the same vehicle. He wasn't sure if that was done on purpose, or by accident, but if it wasn't on purpose that could only mean one thing.

Templeton Peck was likely still somewhere in the VA hospital, and probably visiting Captain Murdock just as they had suspected. It also meant that Peck was alone, without the help and support of the rest of the A-Team . . .

"Sloppy, Peck . . . real sloppy," Fulbright commented on the situation in general, trying hard to suppress the grin that threatened to appear upon his face at their seemingly good fortune. He never would have expected the A-Team to become so complacent that they were now at risk of being put behind bars, permanently. He wouldn't have expected it from the suave, elusive Lieutenant Peck, and certainly not from a cunning strategist like Colonel Smith.

That poor performance from the con man, especially, could turn out to be his undoing as it left him exposed and vulnerable. He'd never know what'd hit him until he was in cuffs and on his way to Leavenworth. Even though Decker just raced off after what he presumed was Smith and Baracas in the van, he didn't want to move in too quickly. If Peck heard the sirens, he wanted to give him a false sense of security in the sense that nobody came after him immediately before the Bull would charge in.

"How soon do we move in, General?" his driver asked.

"We move in five minutes. I want Peck to think that he's not in danger before we drop the hammer on him," Fulbright indicated, shifting slightly where he sat in the front passenger seat of the military police vehicle. This all seemed like it was going to work out after all, in spite of Decker not having some of his men case out the VA to search for Peck.

If the supply officer was still there as he suspected, and they could capture him, then that would effectively divide up the A-Team. Once Peck was in custody, then they could use him as the bait they needed to easily apprehend Smith and Baracas. He knew that, once Peck was arrested, they would try to free him at all costs . . . and it would be just like a moth to a flame . . . they'd be so focused on that they would fall into his trap.

In a way, he did have to give Decker credit for this. Once he had spotted Peck's vehicle in the parking lot of the VA hospital, he had devised this plan and related it over the radio. It was quick thinking, but that's no less than he expected of Smith's adversary dating back to the days of Vietnam.

* * *

Colonel Decker shifted within the passenger seat of the sedan he sat in, his steel blue eyes locked onto the GMC Vandura van that belonged to the A-Team. Even at this time of night, the darkness of the vehicle didn't prevent it from being spotted under the street lights as it skidded around a corner and into an alley.

Wordlessly, the Sergeant within the driver's seat turned the sedan to follow. Decker glanced over to him for a moment. The kid had to be no more than 19 or 20, with red hair, green eyes, and freckles. His slim build and overall appearance reminded him of Howdy Doody. Apparently, Roderick wasn't the only one who made that connection, as others had given Sergeant Robert Smith the nickname of Howdy.

He was young, recently assigned to help in the pursuit of the A-Team due to the increased number of men that Fulbright approved . . . and likely highly inexperienced based on how nervous he looked. Howdy looked like he was about to blow chunks right there.

For a moment, he regretted splitting himself up with Captain Crane, and each of them taking separate vehicles. Marcus had been with him for a while, and was a talented driver, but if they had any chances of capturing the A-Team this time around, he knew that they needed to be in separate vehicles. He just hoped that the kid sitting behind the wheel had what it'd take to get the job done.

The A-Team van skidded again as it took a left hand turn from Sepulveda Boulevard onto Venice Boulevard, with the line of MP cars following close behind. Stores were closing up, so traffic was thankfully light, although that still didn't prevent them from having to swerve around cars that traveled along the road at that time of night. The driver of a red sports car nearly hit the line of sedans as they screeched around the corner, coming to a stop just in time and sounding his displeasure through a long blast of the car horn. Decker didn't even flinch at that, keeping his attention on the elusive three-toned van.

"Colonel, we seem to be gaining on them," Captain Crane's voice noted over the CB radio.

Decker picked up the hand held microphone on the CB that rested in the center of the dash of the sedan he was seated in. Depressing the button on it, he talked into the mic, "We've had them before, Captain. Don't lose them this time."

The seasoned officer took a moment to observe the pursuit, only to realize that Marcus Crane was right. They were gaining on the A-Team van, which was something they hadn't done before. For that to happen, it meant only one of a few things. Could there be a mechanical problem with the van itself? Could the traffic on the city streets be slowing them down more than anticipated? Could someone other than Baracas be driving the van? And, more importantly, could the A-Team be slowing down a bit on purpose to make him think that they were going to be successful in finally apprehending them before making another daring and improbable escape?

Roderick had to consider all of the possible explanations as to why they were closing in. He immediately ruled out the mechanical problem. If there was one, chances are the van would be spewing smoke or have difficulty with accelerating or handling the turns.

He also ruled out the thought that someone other than Sergeant Baracas could be driving the van. From what he remembered on the file he had read, Baracas was the A-Team's primary driver . . . even back in the jungles of 'Nam, and then was pretty insistent upon assuming that role to the point where he purposely intimidated others. It likely would take an extreme set of circumstances for him to relegate control of that vehicle to another member of the unit. Plus, when they had made the left turn onto Venice, he could clearly make out the muscular form of the Sergeant behind the wheel.

For a moment, he considered the traffic in the area. Since escaping from Fort Bragg, Decker noted how the A-Team often took extreme precautions to make sure that civilian lives would not be lost. Their actions could sometimes be considered as reckless and dangerous, even causing traffic pile ups as cars swerved to avoid them, but never were they the direct cause of an innocent life being lost. Even with all of these bleeding heart cases they took on, they took steps to make sure that those that were engaged in illegal activity were brought to justice. They could have killed a lot of these men outright, but they never did, which really spoke volumes in terms of how they operated.

Tonight, though, there was no major sporting events within the tri-county region. Both the Dodgers and the Angels were on the road, which thankfully meant that traffic was fairly light. Most of it would likely be confined to other streets closer to the downtown Los Angeles area or around popular tourist attractions, rather than by the 405 San Diego Freeway. When all of it was considered, it meant that traffic likely wasn't a factor either to explain why they were catching up.

That left only one possibility . . .

From where he sat, Decker saw the A-Team van take a sharp right. It almost looked, for a moment, as if they were doing a 180 degree turn to come right at them, but instead turned down Culver Boulevard. His men didn't figure on such a sharp turn, and wound up having to take a wider swing through the intersection in order to resume the pursuit. Unfortunately, that cost them precious time and ground.

He glanced over Howdy for a moment and told him in his deep, grovely voice, "Son, if you don't put that gas pedal to the floorboard in 5 seconds, you'll be eating your stripes for breakfast! I am not about to lose the A-Team this time."

Howdy tried not to flinch at that threat, but he did push down harder on the accelerator as the line of cars raced past the Sony Pictures Studio lot. There was another left turn that sent the van and the sedans skidding around the bend, and onto Overland Avenue.

Decker could see the van speed up and gain some distance between them, which confirmed his doubts about there being any mechanical problems with the A-Team vehicle. Smith was playing a game with him all throughout this chase, and likely relishing it like he normally did. That thought made him curse under his breath, infuriated at the fact that they fell for such an obvious rouse.

Through the darkness, he could see the approaching fenceline that kept wayward citizens from walking down the steep concrete embankments into the Los Angeles River. For a moment, he wouldn't put it past Smith to try and find an access road, crash through the gate, and continue the chase down there in that man-made canyon that snaked through the city . . . but instead, the A-Team van continued to pick up speed as it not only crossed the bridge over the river, but kept going to the southeast!

Picking up the mic for the CB radio, he pressed a button as he ordered, "Stay alert, men. Smith's up to something. Don't lose them, no matter what." He put the mic back and steadied himself as they followed the A-Team van in a right turn onto Jefferson Boulevard.

'What is Smith up to?' he thought to himself as they sped down Jefferson, quickly heading to where it would merge into Sepulveda. They were pulling away . . . not too far, but at the way the distance was increasing, he was starting to wonder if Sergeant Baracas had done something special to the engine of the van to allow the increased speed. If they got too far ahead . . .

He tried to squelch that thought, even though he highly suspected that was going to happen. As a student of strategy and tactics, much like Colonel Smith, he could anticipate several different possible outcomes. He may not like all of them, but he wasn't going to stop the pursuit . . . and he'd be darnned if he'd let the A-Team get away easily.

The A-Team van took another right hand turn back onto Overland, this time heading to the southwest. From what Roderick remembered of the greater Los Angeles area, if Smith was going to do anything at this point to escape, it would be in this area. Overland, Sepulveda, and Slauson Avenue formed a triangle near the 405 San Diego Freeway . . . and if there was one spot where it'd be very easy to lose one's pursuers, it would be here.

He looked sternly at Howdy as they swerved to avoid hitting a station wagon, wondering just how much of a rookie this kid was when it came to chasing another vehicle. Military training, even for enlisted, was pretty thorough, but it didn't always prepare someone for high speed chases in urban areas like what they were doing. This was likely a new experience for him, and he'd have to keep that in mind if the A-Team escaped. But, it also made him regret the fact that he didn't get behind the wheel himself. That way, he'd be able to take responsibility and not potentially have to demote someone who clearly hadn't been through something like this before and developed the skills for it.

The pursuit took another right onto Slauson, sending them east toward downtown Los Angeles again . . . but what surprised Decker was the fact that Smith didn't lose them. They were still pulling away, putting distance between themselves and the MP vehicles but he could still see them ahead.

'He's up to something,' Decker mentally confirmed to himself. Colonel John Hannibal Smith wouldn't keep the chase up this long unless . . .

A realization finally hit him!

Peck!

He had to have been back at the VA. It was the only possible explanation as to why Smith was dragging this out for so long. The Lieutenant was likely visiting Captain Murdock, and Smith was protecting him . . . or at least trying to. A smirk appeared upon Decker's face, knowing that he may have one-upped his adversary in that regards, especially with splitting the squads up and suggesting that Fulbright and his units move in on the VA in a second wave.

What happened next surprised Decker. The A-Team van took a left into the Holy Cross Mortuary. No sooner had they made the turn, he heard Captain Crane's voice over the radio as he asked, "Colonel, what are they doing going into a cemetery at this time of night?"

"Maybe they're just dying to get in," Howdy joked, trying to relieve the tension a bit.

Decker glared at Howdy, but ignored the comment. Under any other circumstance, he may have found the humor in that line, but now was definitely not the time to be making jokes. Grabbing the mic from its holder on the dash, Decker pressed the button along the side and responded, "Colonel Smith just made a major mistake. This whole area's wide open, and there's nowhere to hide."

Even at this time of night, he could see how sparse the number of trees were, which allowed a greater field of distance. His mind practically reeled at the thought . . . Colonel Smith, the ever-elusive leader of the A-Team that had foiled Decker's attempts to capture them for so long, finally making what may have been the biggest mistake of his life.

And Roderick was determined to make sure that he capitalized on that mistake, seeing them in cuffs and on the first flight to Leavenworth.

"Keep on them," Decker ordered to Howdy, trying to make sure that they kept the A-Team van in sight. Even with how open the mortuary was, they could likely keep eluding them for hours on these multiple winding roads, or even escape through one of the other exits that existed. Or, they'd likely find a place to hide around the mausoleum, even though the doors would have been locked hours ago.

He couldn't put anything past Smith at this point. He was just like a tiger . . . dangerous when on the loose, but even that much more so when he was backed into a corner and about to be caged.

"Colonel, should we split up to try and cordon them off?" Captain Crane asked over the radio.

Still holding the mic in his right hand, Decker depressed the button on the side and told him, "Negative, Captain. Stick together. I don't want to risk having us picked off one at time."

Putting the mic back in the holster on the dash, Decker looked over to Howdy. "Are you waiting for a personal invitation? Catch up to them!" he ordered.

"Yes, sir," came the response, a bit of a quiver within the tone indicating that the Sergeant was starting to fear that he wouldn't keep his rank for much longer. Pressing down on the gas pedal, the sedan picked up even more speed . . . but not enough to close distance with the A-Team van.

Although the tri-toned van took several different routes, it was becoming evident to Roderick that their adversaries weren't totally trying to lose them . . . at least not yet, but they were putting more distance between the themselves and the line of MP cars that followed. Smith was likely still enjoying this a bit too much, playing a game with them. But, he had a suspicion that was going to be drawing to an end soon with how the chase was leading closer and closer to the mausoleum. They were only a couple hundred yards away, and closing in fast on that location.

The back of the van kicked around as they took another turn at a high rate of speed, disappearing behind the white brick building. The MP sedans followed . . . but what surprised them was when they turned at the same spot as the van.

It was nowhere to be seen!

The military police vehicles slowed to a stop within the parking lot on the back side of the building that served as the final resting place for many. The headlights and mars lights from their vehicles cut through the darkness, yet provided no clue as to where the elusive A-Team had gone. It was almost as if they had vanished in thin air!

The men started to climb out of their vehicles as they looked around, hoping that maybe the A-Team had hidden their vehicle behind a building or another vehicle. So far, everything was coming up empty.

Captain Crane made his way over to Colonel Decker, w ho was now standing next to the vehicle he had been in, as Roderick demanded, "Where the hell did they go?!"

"They disappeared, Colonel. I don't know how, but they did," Crane noted softly, knowing he was walking on egg shells himself with how upset Decker was. He was liable to demote someone on the spot if they said the wrong thing, much like what General Harlan Bull Fulbright did frequently.

"Find them! I want those men!" Decker barked out with such force that a few of the men literally jumped. If the others hadn't been convinced that Decker was upset, the tone of his voice just then clearly showed it.

"They couldn't have gotten far, sir. We didn't see them leave from around the mausoleum," Crane pointed out.

As Crane moved away to start issuing orders to the men, Decker slammed his fist hard onto the roof of the green sedan, leaving a dent on the metal. What he and the others failed to see within the darkness was the black, gunmetal grey, and red van driving along an access road in the distance toward another entrance for the mortuary, without headlights and covered by the darkness of night as they escaped the threat of capture.

* * *

TUESDAY, OCTOBER 26, 1999

PROJECT QUANTUM LEAP

STALLIONS GATE, NEW MEXICO

1:30PM MOUNTAIN TIME

Admiral Calavicci carried a tray from the kitchen over to one of the tables. A couple of salads rested upon the tray, along with two cups of coffee. The cups were freshly poured from the warmer, as steam was still visibly snaking up into the air above the liquid. Still wearing his white dress uniform, Al took a seat at a table that already had a couple of ladies that were already seated.

Senator Diane McBride also sat down at the table, across from Al and then also looked at the two ladies that they had just joined at the table.

The first was an older woman, who wore her black hair up in a bun. A couple of strands cascaded down from it, but overall it made her look sophisticated. Her dark brown eyes shone with incredible intelligence, and she wore a cream-colored pant suit that gave her an air of being a professional business woman. Dr. Donna Elesee, the wife of Dr. Sam Beckett, always seemed to carry herself with an air of authority and often handled a lot of the external relations to keep the funding flowing, except in rare instances where Al had to also appear as well.

The second was a younger woman with brown hair wavy hair that flowed down like a waterfall toward her shoulders. She bore brown eyes as well, but her eyes hid the incredible intelligence that she possessed . . . the genes that allowed that intelligence to be possible had been inherited from her real father. She wore a hot pink blouse, blue jeans, and a white lab coat. Samantha Josephine Fuller was a natural genius, just like her biological father . . . Sam . . . but her talents had almost been wasted if Sam hadn't changed history for her mother, Abigail, and broke the curse that haunted her family for generations.

Al grinned at both of them and began his introductions, first turning to the older woman seated at the table. "Donna, you already know Senator McBride . . ."

"Of course I do," Donna smiled, putting down the fork she held in her right hand. As the wife of Dr. Samuel Beckett, after Sam had changed history to first fix his own marriage that hadn't happened, and then to save a newlywed Diane McBride from being killed, she and Al often took the responsibility of appearing before the annual funding committee. "It's a pleasure to see you here, Senator."

Al turned to the younger woman and introduced her as well, "And this is Dr. Samantha Josephine Fuller, who is working on the retrieval program to try and bring Sam home. Sami Jo, this is Senator Diane McBride who is head of the committee that annually reviews the funding for the Project."

"It's a pleasure, Senator," Sami Jo greeted her warmly, with a gentle smile touching her lips.

"Please, call me Diane," the Senator requested as she reached over to pull the salad and her drink from the tray that Al had carried.

Once she had grabbed her food from the tray, Al turned the tray around so he could grab a fork. He poked at his salad as he mentioned, "Diane's going to be stuck with us for a couple of days due to a sand storm that kicked up. Visibility outside is down to zero. I've already got a set of guest quarters lined up for her."

Diane nodded and then added onto what Al just stated, "The extra couple of days actually will allow me to get to know all of you better, see how everyone works at the Project, and hopefully go back to Washington with enough information that could help secure funding for a long time."

"Admiral Calavicci," the sultry voice of Ziggy rang through the air.

Al had just taken a bite of his salad and tried hard to stifle a sigh in front of the ladies. The hybrid computer that kept track of history and ran the project sometimes had the worst timing. One would tend to think that maybe, a computer that kept track of so many timelines, would at least have the courtesy to give him a heads up much earlier that something needed his immediate attention rather than providing things last minute as Ziggy normally did. Could the artificial intelligence find some humor doing this to him regularly?

"What is it, Ziggy?" Al called out, hoping that Ziggy's usual pattern wasn't going to hold this time around.

"Admiral, I'm sorry to interrupt your lunch, but I project a 89% chance that Dr. Beckett will be arrested by the military police within five minutes," Ziggy informed him.

"What?! Five minutes? How?" Al questioned, totally stunned by this development. With what was going on with this Leap, he knew that Sam wouldn't be able to save Hannibal if he ended up behind bars before he barely had a chance to do anything to fix history. To say that this news had the worst timing was a major understatement right now . . .

"Time is in flux, Admiral. Recent developments, not in the original history, are taking place that has prompted this new projection. Dr. Beckett has also gone back to the Wadsworth Veterans Administration Hospital," the computer explained.

"Oi vey," Al murmured, realizing just how close they were cutting this one, before ordering the computer, "Ziggy, have Gooshie fire up the Imaging Chamber and get the Handlink online. I'll be up there in less than 2 minutes."

Standing up from the table, he offered a weak smile to the three ladies that were supposed to dine with him. "I hate to do this, but I'm going to have to take a raincheck on lunch. I need to get to Sam and let him know what's going on," he said apologetically.

"Go ahead, Al. Do whatever you need to in order to help Sam. We'll be here once you're done," Dr. Donna Elesee reassured him, knowing that Al hated to blow off stuff like this . . . especially when he had to attend to anything related to the business end of the Project.

Sami Jo nodded an affirmative as well, letting Al know that she fully supported him without saying anything. Diane also nodded as well, before adding, "I'm in good company, Al, and I'm sure that Dr. Elesee and Dr. Fuller can answer any additional questions I may have while you help Dr. Beckett."

"I'll be back as soon as I can," Al informed them before taking off in a run for the elevator. Thoughts raced through his mind as he stepped on board the elevator, and hit the button for the control level. Could Sam's presence be the reason why things were changing as they were? Why didn't Ziggy catch this sooner? Could there be other elements at work here, that even he wasn't aware of? He knew that sometimes Sam speculated whether God, fate, or time itself controlled his Leaps, so just about anything was possible.

To Al, it seemed like the ride in the elevator took forever, even though it was no longer than usual. But, what made it seem that way was the fact that his best friend was in trouble. Al was so determined to get to Sam that he tried to squeeze past the doors before they could fully open. He rushed into the Control Room, where he saw Gooshie standing behind the control table, filled with colorful cubes used to initiate the various functions associated with Project Quantum Leap.

"Is the Imaging Chamber online, Gooshie?" Al asked, grabbing the Handlink from its cradle without even stopping. The Handlink was very similar to the control table, filled with colorful cubes that lit up . . . but it was an essential part of what he did, providing a data link to Ziggy, where he could retrieve the information Sam needed about a Leap. The colors and the layout of both reminded him of a bunch of gummy bears, even though the technology behind it was unparalleled.

"Yes, Admiral. We'll be able to re-establish the lock on Dr. Beckett as soon as you are in the Imaging Chamber," Dr. Gushman responded as he saw Al make his way up the ramp.

"Then hit it," Al instructed him, pushing a button on the Handlink to open the Imaging Chamber door. "Sam's in trouble, and we have no time to lose." He walked inside and pressed another button to close the door. A swirl of images appeared in the center of the room, and Al stepped inside the vortex. The moment he did so, everything snapped into focus as the lock was established . . .

* * *

MONDAY, MAY 12, 1986

WADSWORTH VETERANS ADMINISTRATION HOSPITAL

WESTWOOD

LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA

9:05PM PACIFIC TIME

Sam and Murdock both looked up as they heard the Imaging Chamber door open within Murdock's room, and saw Al walk through there almost as if he was in a hurry. "Sam, thank God!" Al exclaimed.

"Albert?" Murdock inquired, his brown eyes widening with a bit of surprise. It was obvious that he wasn't used to seeing Al enter this way, and it was likely going to take a bit to get used to it for as long as Sam was still occupying Faceman's aura.

"Al, what's wrong?" Sam asked from the window, looking carefully at his holographic friend. Al usually didn't make a comment like what he did unless there was some kind of immediate danger, and the Observer was afraid that he was a bit too late with alerting him.

"You have to get out of here!" Al emphasized, waving his arms wildly toward the front of the building. "The MPs are on their way, and if you don't get outta dodge, you're going to be arrested in two minutes!"

Sam was stunned by this news. "How can that be possible, Al? We got away from them hours ago," he pointed out, hoping that maybe he was wrong on this.

Al glanced at the plastic slab that bore colorful cubes that reminded him of gummy bears. "Decker got some new vehicles to replace the ones that were wrecked when you guys got away from them earlier. And General H . . ." Al started to read, pausing as the Handlink glitched and didn't give the full name. He smacked the side of it hard, resulting in a squeal of protest, before it spit out the rest of the information for him. "Harlan Fulbright is helping him out too."

"I heard sirens earlier," Sam realized, not knowing at the time that it possibly could be the MPs.

Murdock looked at his flying buddy from Vietnam for a moment, taking in all of the information that had just been presented before looking at the time traveler. From what Al had told him before, he had a pretty good guess that Sam wouldn't be able to fix history if Decker or Fulbright arrested him. "Go on, Sam. You can call me later from Face's place," the A-Team pilot encouraged.

"Sam, move! They're gonna be here any minute!" Al reiterated, waving his hands that much more wildly. Italians were known to be expressive, and used a lot of gestures when they talked, but in this case Al was doing that just to get Sam to do something and not just stand there.

Sam nodded stuffed the map back into his pocket before scrambling away from the window and running back to the parking lot as fast as he could. It didn't take too long for him to cross the distance from Murdock's window to the lot, where he saw that Al was already 'sitting' in the passenger seat of the Vette. He didn't even bother opening the door to the convertible as he jumped inside and pulled out the key. Sirens could be heard as he put the key in the ignition and started up the car, causing the engine to roar to life.

"Go, Sam, go!" Al told his friend.

"Just tell me where to drive so we won't get caught," Sam said hurriedly as he shifted the car into drive and stomped on the gas hard, causing the tires to smoke before the sports car sped away within the parking lot.

The sound of the sirens could be heard over the screeching tires, growing closer with every passing moment. Wind whipped through Sam's hair as he pulled out onto Wilshire and headed east towards the heart of Los Angeles itself.

Al looked back behind the Vette as he spotted a line of four green sedans, all with mars lights on the roof of the vehicles, and all of them following him at a high rate of speed. "Floor it, Sam," the hologram told his friend. "Take a left at the next intersection, and then a right."

Sam didn't even respond, trying to focus on controlling the car at a high rate of speed and also following the directions that Al had just given him. He stomped down even harder on the gas pedal, putting it to the floor whenever he didn't have to turn. He glanced briefly into the rear view mirror, and saw the sedans closing in behind him.

The tires protested against the high speed turns by letting out a loud squeal, which was just barely louder than the sirens. The Vette skidded around the corner onto Manning Avenue, and then found its traction again as Sam again stomped down hard on the accelerator. His heart, at this point, was racing just like the engine of the Vette, due to the danger he was in of being caught. But he trusted Al implicitly, and knew that he would give him driving directions that hopefully could put some distance between him and the MPs.

Following the right turn onto Linbrook Drive, Sam again stepped on the gas as he realized, "Al, this place is residential. We need to get out of here so we don't hurt any innocent bystanders."

Al read the information on the Handlink and quickly told Sam, "Left quick onto Westholme! Ziggy's sending us to Uc . . ." He paused as the display froze again, hitting the device hard, only to get another squeal of protest. "Oh, UCLA! That whole place is a maze, and a game is just about to let out, so there should be some heavy traffic to buy us a bit of breathing room."

"Al!" Sam started to counter, only to have his partner cut him off.

"It's the best bet that Ziggy can come up with. Besides, you went to UCLA for one of your doctorates, so you should know the campus like the back of your hand," Al pointed out, waving his hand a bit in the direction of the road in front of them.

At this point, all Sam could do was hope that Al was right. With his swiss-cheesed brain, there was a pretty good chance that he wouldn't be able to elude the MPs on that campus . . . but he still had to try. If he didn't, Hannibal was as good as dead.

Westholme eventually came to a point where the road ended, and one could only go left or right. "Which way, Al?" Sam asked urgently, needing to turn in a few seconds if he needed to keep up this rate of speed.

"Left!" Al directed, looking at the information again to make sure that wasn't a glitch or a mistake from Ziggy. The Handlink sometimes froze on information, and often at the worst times. It'd usually take a good whack or two to the side in order to get the data to start feeding properly again on the display. If there was anything that Al wish that they could fix about the Project, that was it. It annoyed him to no end.

Sam turned the wheel sharply as the Corvette threatened to skid, but quickly corrected it as he turned onto Charles E. Young Drive. "How much further, Al?" the time traveler asked, getting more nervous with every passing moment.

"Keep going, Sam. I'll tell you when to turn," Al tried to reassure him, glancing back at the MP cars that seemed like they were closing in. He had to admit that the Army drivers were good . . . better than he expected, but they didn't have the advantage that Sam had. They didn't have the information on what was going to happen in the future, which the Observer could provide. "Floor it, Sam! They're catching up!"

"What do you think I'm doing?" Sam shot back, weaving around a car that was in his path as they sped past the medical center. He could hear the horn of the car he had just raced around, fading as they raced away. "Where's this game, Al? When do I turn?"

"Take the next right, and then a left after that," Al instructed, keeping him on the drive as it drew closer to the track and field stadium. They could already see people walking down the sidewalks . . . the beginning of the crowd that was leaving. Ziggy's timing may not have been perfect, but it was close enough to where they would have a chance . . .

Sam complied and turned the wheel, and again the Corvette threatened to skid with taking the turns at such a high rate of speed, but he managed to keep it on the road and going in the direction where he wanted. "Al . . ." Sam pleaded.

Just as Al had said, a crowd of students started to stream out of the stadium as Sam approached it. He shot past them, but they started crossing directly in the path of the MPs. The crowd was so thick that the MPs had to slam on their brakes and come to a sudden stop, while Sam was free to drive away . . .

"That was . . . that was too close! Al, someone could have been killed!" Sam protested as he slowed the car down, now that they had gotten away from the military police. He was breathing, almost in a way that made it seem like he was trying to catch his breath . . . just as if he had actually run that distance rather than drove. "How in the world do these guys do this, and nobody gets hurt?"

"They've been doing it for years, Sam," Al reminded him with a bit of admiration in the tone of his voice. Even though the government branded the A-Team as criminals, knowing what he did about the integrity of these men, the Naval Admiral never once believed that they would willingly rob that bank unless they were under orders. "That's why they're so good at it."

Even though they were out of danger for the moment, Sam's heart still felt like it was racing. "Please tell me that we won't have to do that again," he pleaded, clearly not looking forward to continuing this Leap if he had to keep eluding authorities like he just did, especially when others could be put in danger in the process.

"I can't promise you that, Sam," Al started to say, looking up from his Handlink for a moment, giving his friend a half-smile. "Well, look on the bright side. At least by losing them back there, they won't bother you for the rest of tonight."

"Just for tonight?" Sam rolled his eyes, wondering just what he was getting himself into with this Leap.


	10. Chapter 8: Future Connections

_Thanks. I, uh, really appreciate your trusting me like that._

_Lets just say I liked your face._

_Oh. I have an honest face?_

_No. But I like it. _

_- __Face and a girl, "__When You Comin__'__ Back, Range Rider?__"_

* * *

_Dr. Ruth: Well, then . . . tell me about your girlfriend?_

_Al: Ah . . . ah . . . her name is Tina._

_Dr. Ruth: Uh-huh . . . so tell me more._

_Al: More about Tina?_

_Dr. Ruth: Uh-huh._

_Al: Ah . . . well . . . ummm . . . oh, well, ha-ha-ha, she's got . . . great . . . casabas!_

_Dr. Ruth: What are these . . . casabas?_

_Al: Well, you know . . . melons, ho-has, honkers, hooters, headlights, ah . . . ta-tas . . . teeters, tweeters, tom-toms, tee-tees?_

_Dr. Ruth: Say it!_

_Al: I'm trying to say it! Meatballs, mangos, cream pies, cupcakes, eh . . . bangers, bouncers, bolumbas!_

_Dr. Ruth: Al!_

_Al: Bazongas! BREASTS! . . . I said it!_

_Dr. Ruth: You see . . . it wasn't that hard._

_Al: Yes it was._

_- "Dr. Ruth"_

**Chapter 8: Future Connections**

MONDAY, MAY 12, 1986

MALIBU, CALIFORNIA

10:00PM PACIFIC TIME

A soft click echoed through the empty hallway before the door to the penthouse swung open. Dr. Samuel Beckett stepped inside, letting out a sigh of relief for one thing that went right tonight. Closing the mahogany door behind him, he made his way to the nearest end table and dropped the keys on it. They clattered onto the glass surface, breaking the silence that enveloped him like a thick fog.

His eyes were already adjusting to the darkness of the room, but he had no intention of having to stumble his way around an unfamiliar place where he . . . no, where Face supposedly borrowed to live in. He reached over to the table lamp and reached up under the shade, finding the switch and turning it until it clicked. Once it did, the room was bathed in a gentle light . . .

Sam blinked for a moment to try and let his eyes adjust again from going to hardly any light, to now having plenty of it. It was almost blinding for a moment. Silently, he cursed himself for not thinking like Templeton Peck . . . like Face . . . and checking the penthouse first to make sure it was really empty before turning on the light. It wasn't that he expected it to be occupied, but based on what he had learned since Leaping in and the recent car chase in order to escape from the MPs, he had to be on his guard.

The time traveler started to make his way through the penthouse, searching each room meticulously for any signs that someone may have been in there that didn't belong. He could feel his heart start to race again, almost like it did in the 'Vette when he had to escape from the MPs. 'Calm down, Sam,' he thought to himself, trying to ease his nerves, especially since there was no signs of anyone else being in the penthouse besides him.

Satisfied that he was alone, he allowed himself a chance to relax for the first time that day. Sam walked over to the plush black couch and flopped down on it, breathing out a huge sigh of relief. He let his mind wander, as he recalled some of the Leaps he had been on before. There were some very uncomfortable and squirrely situations that he found himself in at the start, but this Leap had to have taken the cake . . . and then some.

Why couldn't he just end up with an easy Leap sometime? Did God, fate, or time find it amusing to have him end up in the most awkward and uncomfortable situations possible? Did whatever entity or force that controlled his Leaps enjoy watching him squirm and stumble his way through things until Al could show up? It sure seemed like it, and it happened far too many times to count.

In spite of the fact that he was living the life that belonged to another man, albeit temporarily, Sam took a moment to enjoy this rare opportunity to relax. Based on what he had just been through in the last 24 hours, it seemed as if the chances to be able to do so would likely be very rare with how they were constantly on the run. They were not only running from the police themselves, but also the military police, and anyone else who likely wanted to turn in the A-Team and collect the reward that likely was put up for their capture.

From where he sat on the couch, Sam looked around the penthouse. His green eyes admired the décor, realizing that Templeton Peck had considerable taste. Well, no . . . maybe not directly since this penthouse had been another elaborate scam. His mind quickly recalled the brief encounter in the lobby, once he entered the building, with the superintendent who asked him . . . or rather Arthur Williams . . . if he had still had the key to the penthouse or if he lost that one too.

So, that's how Face managed to do it . . . to get this place. He posed as the owner, who likely wasn't around often enough for people to match a face to the name, and managed to get the superintendent to give him a key. 'Smooth,' Sam mused to himself as he started to understand a bit how the con man worked. 'Real smooth.'

The physicist's admiration of the penthouse didn't end there. Even though he hadn't thoroughly looked throughout all the rooms yet, just from what he had seen here in what seemed like the living room, everything looked, breathed, and even smelled expensive. It was almost as if it was built for a millionaire. The black couch he sat upon was very plush and looked like it could seat at least three or four people. Right across from the couch was a couple of chairs, which looked similarly designed, so that meant it likely came as a set.

Separating the couch from the chairs was a mahogany coffee table. The frame itself was made of that wood tone, but the center was pure glass, to where you could look down through it and see the eggshell colored carpet that lined the floor. Gold inlays bordered the glass on the coffee table, and also the four clawed feet upon which it rested.

Getting up from the couch, he walked through the living room, spotting a black grand piano. The lid was propped open, like with most concert pianos, which meant that the owner relished in the pure sound of the music that trickled from the instrument, and didn't want it muffled. With a small smile upon his face, he walked over to it and sat down on the bench. His hands lightly played across the ivory keys as his mind wandered . . . wondering if Templeton Peck also knew how to play the piano.

He'd probably have to ask Murdock about that once he had a chance.

Murdock . . .

As Sam stood up from the piano and continued to take in the décor within the penthouse, his thoughts dwelled on the A-Team's pilot. He hadn't expected finding an ally in the institutionalized Texan, but Al trusted Murdock implicitly and Sam trusted Al. Besides, with how they were on the run from the authorities, especially the Military Police, having someone who could back him up . . . someone who knew what was going on, who he really was, and could help make sure that he could pull this off . . . was definitely to his advantage.

Although he had taken a tremendous risk going back to the VA, Sam was glad that he did so and had the discussion that he did with Murdock. It not only gave him some insight about the person he had Leaped into, but also about the person he visited. He could see why Murdock and Al had become fast friends after that initial meeting at the DOOM Club, and how they were able to practically pick up where they left off in that friendship after almost 15 years, making it seem like no time had really passed between the two.

But, Sam had seen something else as well . . . a side of Murdock that he likely didn't want other normal people to see. Sure, he was locked away in the psychiatric ward of a VA hospital, but during that whole conversation Murdock seemed just as sane as he did.

From what he recalled of bi-polar disorder, many of those who had it . . . even without diagnosis . . . lived normal lives within society. Completely normal, average, everyday lives, and very rarely did the mental disorder ever manifest itself publically unless something triggered it. But, if that was the case, why was Murdock living within the VA? Was he faking the insanity for some reason? Even Al had expressed doubts about it, himself.

The intelligence he had seen from the pilot was astounding, even if it was just a bit of a snippet. He never expected it, which made him wonder how Murdock looked at the world. People who were brilliant often perceived things around them very differently, and it often was perceived as being insane. Murdock was probably the type that looked at ink blot tests and, instead of seeing the obvious shapes, actually had the chemical composition of the ink used for the test pop into his head or was looking for optical illusions. Robert Oppenheimer, who created the atomic bomb, certainly fit within that category. Even Sam was thought to have been crazy with the theories he had developed, especially with applying quantum physics to time travel . . . at least until he had to prove the theory worked before he lost funding.

A thought filled Sam's mind as he recalled the close escape from tonight. When Al had popped in to warn him about Fulbright showing up, Murdock showed no form of concern at all for himself. He only wanted Sam to get away. Did that mean that he wasn't wanted by the MPs like the rest of the A-Team? It was very possible that was the case, now that Sam thought about it, because if Murdock had been wanted chances were the security at the VA would have been tighter than Fort Knox itself. From what Sam remembered seeing when they had dropped Murdock off earlier that day, it certainly wasn't even close to being locked down that tightly.

Making his way into the kitchen, he opened up the refrigerator and looked inside. His green eyes quickly glanced over the contents, eventually settling upon a bottle of beer. Reaching into the fridge, he pulled it out and then opened a drawer in the counter next to it. That was pure luck, but also kind of logical, as it yielded a bottle opener.

Using it to pry the cap off the bottle, Sam walked out of the kitchen and back into the living room. Sitting down on the couch again, he found what looked like a remote control for the TV built into the wall and grabbed it. Taking a swig of the beer, he turned the TV on and started flipping through the channels, hoping to find a good movie that he could watch. He still wasn't ready to go to sleep yet. What happened earlier with the escape at the VA still had him wound up, so he needed to relax, and what better way for him to do so than with a good movie and a beer?

* * *

TUESDAY, OCTOBER 26, 1999

PROJECT QUANTUM LEAP

STALLIONS GATE, NEW MEXICO

4:00PM MOUNTAIN TIME

Al walked into the Control Room, with Diane McBride walking right next to him. They approached the console at the center of the room, which was filled with colorful squares. A few cast off a gentle glow from within, the colors from the cubes illuminating off the white clothing that Dr. Irving Gushman wore. The control table reminded the Project Observer of a giant slab of gummy bears that had lights inside . . . or more appropriately, a larger version of the Handlink.

"Hello, Admiral, Senator. I didn't expect to see the two of you here this evening," Gooshie noted, looking at both of them somewhat curiously. He brought a finger up and ran it under his nose, touching his mustache, before lowering his hand again.

Al ignored the comment from the Head Programmer and asked, "What time is it where Sam is?"

Casting a glance at the clipboard within his hands, he paused and cocked his head to the side slightly. His lips moved a bit, although very slightly, almost as if he was talking to himself. After a moment, he responded, "Based on my calculations, approximately 11:30pm Pacific Time."

The Naval Admiral frowned slightly. If there was anything about these Leaps that he hated, it was how it threw off one's sleep schedule. The times between where Sam was, and where they were in the present, never seemed to coincide. What could be 1:00pm where he was in time could be 4:30am at the Project. He knew that, due to growing up on the farm, Sam tended to be an early riser so if they were to go there now, they'd likely wake him up.

Of course, there was always the possibility that Sam could have called Murdock the moment that he got to Face's penthouse, and continued whatever conversation that they had started during Sam's unscheduled visit to the VA. Murdock sure knew how to talk a person's ear off, so that was still a very real possibility as well.

"Is everything all set, Gooshie?" Al wondered. When Diane had made the request earlier in the day to actually meet Sam, he warned the Programmer to expect this visit.

Gooshie nodded and looked over the information on his clipboard one more time. "Yes, Admiral. Once connection is made, we can only maintain the holo for four minutes. Beyond that, and Ziggy will start blowing microchips due to the amount of power consumption in the Imaging Chamber."

"Connection?" Diane inquired, wondering what Dr. Gushman meant by that.

Al drew in a breath and turned to the Senator. "In order for this to work," he began to relate, "you'll have to hold my hand while we're in the Imaging Chamber. It will allow you to see what I see, and for Sam to see and hear you as well. It's why it takes so much power. It has something to do with the neurons and masons, and transference through physical contact, but I won't bore you with the scientific mumbo jumbo."

Diane nodded, her salt and pepper brown hair flowing around her shoulders. "I think most scientific 'mumbo jumbo,' as you put it, would likely go right over my head," she giggled.

Doing this was risky, especially with the huge amount of power that was needed. It had worked only a few times before, but the first time Sam couldn't hear Dr. Verbena Beeks. He could only see her . . . but then again too, that was when he was locked up in Havenwell. The second time, they managed to work it where Sam could not only see, but also hear the Leapee when Sam had to relay her testimony in a rape trial . . . but the power draw was so high that they could light up St. Louis for a month!

Grabbing the Handlink from the charging holder, he looked back to the Senator with concern. This likely was going to be pretty strange for her, just as it was unsettling for Katie McBain who had been through enough trauma as it was prior to when Sam wound up Leaping into her. "Are you sure you're ready for this? He may not recognize you at first with how his memory has more holes in it than a block of swiss cheese," he pointed out.

Drawing in a breath, Diane nodded and then gave the Project Observer a gentle smile. "I'm sure, Al."

Al gave a slight nod himself, and then explained, "Remember, when we first go in there, you won't see anything but blank walls and me. I'll be talking, but you won't see who I'm talking to until I touch your hand."

Gooshie reached over to put his hand on top of one of the colored squares on the console, which began to glow under his touch. "Admiral, the Imaging Chamber is online. Remember, only four minutes of contact, or Ziggy will start blowing circuits and it'll take a while to repair them to re-establish a lock."

Inwardly, Admiral Calavicci cringed at that. Losing contact with Sam for a while, if repairs were needed, could adversely affect his ability to fix history and Leap out. And on this Leap, considering who he had Leaped into, Sam was going to need as much help as possible . . .

"Okay, here we go," Al told her as he took her hand, and walked up to the Imaging Chamber door. Letting go of her hand, he reached over and pressed the button to the left of the door, which allowed it to slide open with a hiss. He knew that Diane could see nothing but a smooth blue wall and floor inside the Chamber, but what Al saw was completely different.

Al looked around the penthouse that Sam was in, and concluded that this must have been a place where Face had taken up residence for himself. He looked at the décor, and murmured quietly, "How very 80s."

Looking over to the couch, he could see Sam sitting . . . well, no sleeping. His head was tilted back, and he snored softly. A gentle light danced before him, which drew Al's attention. Turning around, he could see that the TV was on, and a late night movie was in the final few minutes. A beer rested on the coffee table in front of Sam, which meant that he likely dozed off while watching the movie.

"Do you think he'll be back?" a female voice from the TV asked.

"I don't know . . . but if the Aquamaniac returns, we'll be ready," a male voice answered.

That drew Al's attention immediately as he recognized it as the first Aquamaniac movie where Colonel John "Hannibal" Smith had donned the costume. He grinned at that, wondering if Sam fell asleep before the movie came on, or during it . . . or even if he realized that it was one of Hannibal's attempts to portray the creature from the deep.

Returning the focus to his friend, he hated to wake him up . . . but, Al needed to get this over with quickly since Gooshie was quickly ramping up the power for this effort. If Ziggy's systems held onto the power for too long, it'd fry everything and it'd likely take a few years to rebuild, compared to just a couple of blown microchips if he and Diane kept contact for too long.

"Sam . . ." Al said softly, trying to rouse the time traveler from his slumber.

Thankfully, the time traveler hadn't been sleeping too hard . . . yet. His body jerked a bit as he awoke with a start. Blinking his eyes, he looked around and then spotted his holographic friend. Al was still wearing the Naval dress uniform that he had on earlier in the day. "Al?" Sam asked, almost as if wondering if something was wrong. "Is . . . is everything . . ." he started, his mind still a bit too tired to get the words out fully.

"Everything's fine, Sam. There's been no changes since earlier today, but . . . I do have someone here for you to meet," the Observer told his partner.

The scientist sat up a bit, realizing that he had kinda slumped back once he fell asleep on the couch . . . something he hadn't expected to do. "What do you mean, Al?"

The Navy Rear Admiral looked over to a spot in what seemed like thin air and nodded. He reached out with his hand into what seemed like nothingness . . . and once his hand grasped onto something, or rather someone, the image of another person appeared beside that of Al. Sam could see that it was an older woman, but didn't know who it was.

"Hello, Sam," she said gently.

The Nobel Prize winner looked totally confused, and still pretty much in shock at seeing Al bring a woman into the Imaging Chamber with him. Was this the person that he had mentioned that he wanted him to meet? And, if so, who was she? His green eyes looked over to his friend for some kind of clue.

All the Project Observer did was grin, and wave his other free hand a bit that held the handlink. "She wanted to speak to you herself, so I had Ziggy set it up where you could hear her," he explained softly. "We only have a few minutes, though."

"Al . . ." Sam murmured as he shifted his position on the couch. He clearly looked uncomfortable, but not because of the couch itself. It was the situation overall, Leaping into a criminal on the run who managed to get things by lying and swindling others, and now also seeing the woman whose hand that Al was holding and not knowing who she was.

She looked over to the Admiral for a moment, and felt him give her hand a gentle squeeze. "You don't remember me, do you, Sam?" she asked, returning her gaze to the time traveler. All she could see, at the moment, was the aura of the person that he had Leaped into . . . a man in his early 30s with a very handsome face, blonde hair, and blue eyes. It kind of reminded her of Dr. Beckett . . . at least what she saw of his appearance while looking into the Waiting Room . . . but still a bit different.

"No . . . I'm afraid I don't," Sam responded gently, still very confused by what was going on.

Turning to the person holding her hand, her voice hid the emotions that were starting to build inside of her. "Al, he doesn't remember . . ."

Al looked over to her, and drew in a breath. "I'm sorry. His brain is probably still swiss cheesed."

Not about to be deterred, she shifted her position slightly, still making sure to keep a firm hold of Al's hand. She gazed deeply into the eyes of the Leaper . . . or at least the person that he was inhabiting, and pursued, "For a while, you Leaped into my husband, Tom. You not only saved my life, but also helped me to pass my bar exam."

Sam closed his eyes for a moment and wracked his brain, trying to think of what she had just revealed. A memory came flashing back to the forefront of his mind . . . being on a train, kissing a beautiful woman who happened to be a newlywed. It was almost as if a light bulb exploded with how it came back to him. Opening his eyes, he looked straight at her and softly spoke her name, "Diane . . . Diane McBride."

Al looked at Diane, who smiled back at him now that Dr. Beckett remembered who she was. He could tell that she was a lot more relieved now that the initial memory block was gone from Sam's mind and he wasn't talking to an absolute stranger. Still, the Observer needed to clarify something for his friend. "That's Senator Diane McBride, to be exact, the chair of the committee that annually reviews the funding for the Project, Sam. Senator Weitzman would have cut off funding and shut us down long time ago if it wasn't for Diane."

Sam's jaw seemed to practically drop at that. All of the rules that they created about not trying to change their own past, and here . . . standing before him . . . was a person who's life he had saved, and in so doing it also seemed to save the funding of the Project itself. "But . . . what are you doing in the Imaging Chamber with Al?" he wondered, curious as to why she was there.

"I can answer this one, Sam," Al immediately jumped in, trying to spare Diane from a lengthy explanation. He looked at the display on the handlink, and almost two minutes had passed already, which meant that they'd have to wrap this up soon without damaging any of Ziggy's microchips. "Diane stopped by to visit the Project, and a sand storm kicked up. You can't see a thing out there, so she's stuck here for a couple of days until it passes. And, well, she wanted to meet you."

Diane nodded and gave Sam a gentle smile. "Not just meet you . . . but, I also want to personally thank you for everything you did for me. You saved my life, and then helped me to pass my bar exam. I wouldn't even be here, now, if it hadn't been for you."

Sam was totally floored by that statement. Although he recalled what had taken place, no one who's life had ever been affected by what he did ever visited the Project before, much less wanted to meet him in person and personally thank him just as Diane just did. Or, at least he didn't think so . . . although it was hard to know for sure with how swiss cheesed his brain could be sometimes. Even though she was older from the last time he had seen her, she was still just as beautiful. It was obvious that the years had been kind to her.

"How is your husband, Tom?" Sam wondered, trying to see what came of his future. He didn't remember much of what had happened to Tom, since Al had been trying to have Sam change history in such a way that the finance committee would have taken notice and not cut off funding . . .

"Tom is doing wonderfully. He's had a long and successful career as a detective on the police force, and has solved a number of cases over the years. He's been filled with an incredible amount of passion for wanting to help others, and has no desire to slow down," the Senator noted fondly. "He used to speak sometimes of a strange room that he woke up in . . . but I thought for a while that was just him making up one of his stories until I saw the Waiting Room."

A small smile crossed Sam's lips and his eyes seemed to glisten a bit as he told her, "That's great, Diane."

A voice echoed through the Imaging Chamber, announcing, "30 seconds, Admiral." Al recognized the voice immediately. It was Gooshie, giving him a warning of how much time they had left to maintain this before it could adversely affect Ziggy.

The quantum physicist noticed Al's reaction. It was slight, and almost imperceptible. After all of the years they had been doing this, he could tell when Gooshie or Ziggy may have relayed a message in the Imaging Chamber. "Al, what is it?" he wondered.

"We had to pull a lot of power quickly to set this up. Because of that, if we take too long, it'll blow some of Ziggy's microchips," Al noted solemnly hating to end this reunion, in a sense, so soon. "Diane, it's time."

The Senator nodded to the Project Observer and drew in a breath. "Sam, I don't know if we'll ever see each other again, but no matter what happens, thank you. Thank you for saving me, my husband, and for all of the good you've done over the years."

"You're welcome," Sam responded, thankful for this opportunity to meet someone whose life had been saved by his efforts. In a way, this was the greatest gift that Al could ever have given him, and certainly not one that he would have ever expected considering how Quantum Leap was a top secret project.

Al released his hold on Diane's hand, and she disappeared from Sam's view. For Diane McBride, the image of the penthouse faded back into the plain blue walls of the Imaging Chamber. Apparently, the hologram still continued for Al, as she heard him say, "Good night, Sam."

No sooner had he said that, he turned and looked to the Senator and the biggest supporter of the Project. "So . . . what did you think?" he wondered, hoping she wasn't too overwhelmed by what she had just experienced.

Her brown eyes lit up, and it felt like adrenaline was flowing through her veins. The experience was unlike anything she had ever seen before. Sure, she had heard of virtual reality, which was starting to gain a bit of interest, but this went far beyond that with how realistic everything appeared to be. "That was amazing! I know it was a hologram, but it looked so real . . . like we were really there with him," she expressed with complete awe within the tone of her voice.

Al couldn't help but to grin. Although he had been doing this for years, helping Sam as a hologram, he still had fun with it occasionally . . . popping in to places to check it out, or even check out a beautiful woman who had no clue that she was being spied upon. Of course, there was always the times that he could scare Sam. As much as his friend hated it, the Observer certainly got a chuckle out of being able to do that whenever he could.

"Maybe I can tell you a few stories about how I've scared Sam a time or two as a hologram," he smiled, crooking his arm so Diane could slip hers around his, as they walked down the ramp together leading from the Imaging Chamber.

* * *

MONDAY, MAY 12, 1986

WEST LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA

11:45PM PACIFIC TIME

Karl Schutz sat within his rental sedan, on the top floor of the parking structure at the corner of Pico Boulevard and Corinth Street. Although the garage wasn't too high up, the top levels would afford any pedestrian a decent view of the street below.

Not that there was much to see at this time of night. Traffic was extremely light to where it was practically non-existent. He could see a few stray cars passing by on the nearby 405 San Diego Freeway, and occasionally there could be a car heard on the street below.

Most sensible people were already at home, and likely sleeping if not just heading to bed. But, that's if they were sensible. From what he had heard, Tuesday was going to bring about some insanity to the city due to the playoff basketball game between the Los Angeles Lakers and the Houston Rockets, but that wasn't going to be until much later in the evening and, by that point, he would have already flown back to Germany.

But, before he could do that, he had to meet with the second person he intended to hire. It was a name that he had held in contingency due to the reports he had read on this individual . . . but he hadn't considered using him until Lieutenant Angel had revealed who Amy Allen may have sought the protection of. Upon learning that, it made this choice that much more perfect.

From what he recalled, this mercenary had an impressive track record. He was well known within military circles, but he had gained most of his fame and credibility by hiring himself out to those who wanted to dispatch with a so-called problem. He was willing to do anything, without any sense of scruples holding him back, and was even willing to put a bullet through the heart of some poor helpless soul that stood in his way, if necessary.

The profile on this guy was perfect, and exactly what he needed. This guy would be the perfect partner for Lieutenant Angel for this operation. Commissar Kruger would indeed be pleased with how everything would ultimately turn out. The reporter was as good as theirs again. He was certain of that.

He put the file of the individual he was about to hire on the dashboard of the car. Looking out the windshield, he noticed that the light pole that normally provided illumination for this level of the parking structure was burnt out. As a result, the whole area was cast in an eerie, foreboding darkness. They were too high above the 405 Freeway to get any ambient light from the cars that passed on the freeway nearby, so the only light came from the headlights on his own vehicle . . . headlights that pierced the darkness around him.

He wasn't sure why his contact asked him to meet him here, but seeing the lighting conditions, now he knew. He could easily operate within the shadows, and nobody would ever know until . . .

The sound of the passenger door of the car opening instantly snapped him out of his reverie. Instinctively, he pulled out a gun and aimed it at the person that was now getting in. The intruder was a clean-cut male, with dark hair that was obviously receding, and a chiseled face that showed the hardship of war.

"I would suggest you put that gun away, Mr. Schutz. Police often patrol this area, and it is illegal to carry a weapon, much less a concealed one without the proper permits, which I doubt that you have," the intruder quickly pointed out with a bit of a smirk. He had been confident, and never flinched once when the gun was pointed at him. "The name is Kyle . . . Major Douglas Kyle."

The German relaxed the grip on his gun and pulled it closer to himself, but did not put it away. Anyone who was this ballsy with an entrance was not to be trusted. "I would appreciate it if you announced your presence or asked permission before entering my vehicle," Schutz countered sharply, not at all pleased by the presumptuous of his visitor.

Kyle raised an eyebrow at what Schutz had said. The smirk that he had on his face fell, as he became serious . . . deadly serious. "You said that you wanted to hire me to curtail a certain threat, which is why I came here. If you don't want my help, I can always go. I have other clientele who would be more than willing to accept my unique methods."

"No," Schutz quickly countered, not wanting him to leave. The guy had guts, which only convinced him even further that he was perfect for this in spite of his arrogance and lack of respect. "Your unique training and skills, along with your past experience, makes you perfect for this assignment. I would not have contacted you if I did not intend to hire your services."

Kyle crossed his arms in front of him, not totally convinced. His dark eyes observed the blonde-haired German, trying to get a read on him. And if first impressions were right, this guy was a middle man for his boss . . . someone who handled things, so his boss' hands wouldn't appear to be dirty. It was logical, and made sense in a country like this so things wouldn't be traced back to their source. And no doubt, Karl Schutz was loyal. If he wasn't, chances are he wouldn't even be doing this.

"Fine," Douglas conceded. "What is this threat you want me to deal with?"

The German pulled out a packet from the sun visor above his head, and then handed it over to the mercenary. He watched as Kyle opened up the packet, and pulled out a photo of the subject, along with a folder with some information inside. "Her name is Amy Allen," Karl began to explain as she watched the major study the picture.

Kyle raised an eyebrow as he studied the picture. She looked to be young, likely in her late 20s or early 30s, with brown hair with a slight wave to it that ended at her shoulders. Her brown eyes seemed to have a sparkle that he thought he recognized in someone else . . . and, if it was that same look, then no doubt this was going to be more difficult than he originally expected. "She's cute. What's her story?" he wondered, hoping to get to the essence of the situation.

This time, it was Schutz's turn to smirk a bit. He wasn't too surprised with how the mercenary wanted to get to the point, and quickly. It just fit his profile perfectly. If Anderson and Kyle could figure out how to get along, then they'd have no problem with quickly nabbing the reporter and accomplishing their task. "She's a reporter for the Los Angeles Courier Express. She saw some sensitive documents and has proof of their existence on film. My employer wants her brought back to East Germany, where she will be questioned, and then eliminated . . . quietly, and without a trace."

Kyle flipped the information up on the dash as he scoffed. "Sounds like a cakewalk to me . . . something that any other floozy could easily do," he commented, firmly believing that this type of a situation was beneath him and his skill level. Far beneath. Not that he wasn't about to pass up the money, since quick jobs like this could pay for his ammo and expenses with future cases, but it just almost didn't seem worth the time and effort.

This time, it was Karl Schutz who had the advantage, especially considering the information he possessed . . . not just about the reporter, but also about the mercenary as well. He knew that there was no way Major Douglas Kyle was going to pass this up. "So, you're going to pass, even if it means being able to get revenge?" he questioned, the smirk still very evident on his face.

Doug studied the German for a moment. With the expression he had, it meant that there was more to all of this. Either that, or he was being baited . . . and he hated being baited. Drawing in a breath, he decided to ask, "What kind of revenge?"

Karl shifted in his seat in order to allow himself a more direct view of the mercenary. He still hadn't lowered his weapon, since he didn't trust Kyle at all . . . but, it was going to be interesting to see his reaction to what he was about to reveal. "We have come to learn that Ms. Allen was once associated with and might now be attempting to contact a group of individuals, whom I understand you have a personal vendetta against."

Kyle let out a bit of a laugh that seemed to be dripping with sarcasm. He couldn't believe the audacity of this guy. He was even more convinced that he was being baited with how this was drawing out, but the curiosity in terms of who could have been behind this was a bit too much for him to resist. They often said that curiosity killed the cat, but cats like him had nine lives . . . and he had only gone through one so far, according to his own count. "In case if you haven't noticed, there are several people out there that I would love to extract some revenge on. But, just who are these individuals?" Kyle wondered, hoping that the German would get to the point.

The expression on Schutz's face fell and his tone became deadly serious. "I believe you know them as . . . the A-Team," he revealed, coldly. No sooner had the words left his lips, his gaze transfixed on that of Kyle's, studying his face for his reaction.

One of Douglas Kyle's eyebrows rose, and a smug smile appeared on his face. He had always been looking for an opportunity for a re-match, or even a chance to get some revenge against Colonel Smith and his men. That had been the only black mark on his otherwise illustrious record as a mercenary for hire, and indeed Schutz was right . . . he definitely wanted revenge.

But in this case, it was practically being handed to him on a silver platter. Grabbing the file off the dash, he started to look through it again. From what he could see, just by glancing things over, it became apparent that the reporter didn't just have an interest in the A-Team and followed them like storm chasers follow tornados throughout the Midwest. There was more . . . a lot more, and it showed within her writing. It was almost as if maybe the A-Team had opened their doors and let her inside. Ultimately, she would be the weak link that would allow him to have his revenge.

"Allow me to assemble a team, and I guarantee that we will eliminate the A-Team," Kyle boasted, his tone of voice showing how much confidence he had that they would succeed this time around.

Karl shook his head, causing a strand of his well-groomed hair to fall almost in front of his eyes. He looked sternly again at Douglas Kyle and explained, "Time is something we have very little of, Major. There is a deadline of four days, in which the reporter must be on a plane back to our country. I doubt that you can assemble an effective unit within that short period of time."

Closing the folder, Douglas studied the photo once more, almost as if trying to memorize every curve . . . every feature . . . every inch of the reporter. After a moment, he glanced up at Schutz and challenged, "Try me."

Karl was quickly growing frustrated. It seemed, this time, that Kyle wanted to pull the strings and do things his way. Unfortunately, with time of the essence, that wasn't how it was going to work. His tone of voice became firmer, more confident, as he instructed, "I have already contacted Lt. Thomas Angel, who will be working with you. You will have the same deal he does. One third payment now, and the rest upon the reporter's delivery to the compound in East Germany."

Kyle watched as Schutz pulled out an envelope from his jacket and handed it over. Snatching it out of his hands, he opened it up and leafed through the wad of bills stuffed inside along with two phone numbers. One was local, so he had to assume that it belonged to Lt. Angel. The other had a country code that likely was for East Germany. As for the money, there had to be at least $50,000 there based on first glance. And if it was indeed only one third of the payment, then that was going to equate to a very nice sum of money just for kidnapping some reporter. The defeat of the A-Team would just be icing on the cake for him.

"Very well, Mr. Schutz. You have yourself a deal," Major Kyle informed him. Before Karl Schutz could say anything more, Kyle opened up the car door and quietly and quickly slipped out the same way he had entered it.

* * *

TUESDAY, OCTOBER 26, 1999

WAITING ROOM

PROJECT QUANTUM LEAP

STALLIONS GATE, NEW MEXICO

4:30PM MOUNTAIN TIME

Templeton Peck rested on the examination table within the Waiting Room. He wasn't asleep, but in a way he wished that he was asleep and all of this was nothing more than a bad dream . . . or maybe a nightmare . . . and that he could just wake up and he'd be back where he belonged. All of this seemed like it was a page out of one of Murdock's fantasies, and he was stuck in the middle of it with no way to escape.

He was still very troubled by the fact that this was some kind of a top secret installation, run by a Naval Rear Admiral. What in the world was going on here that it had to be made top secret? Was there some kind of secret that they didn't want to get out? Were they a branch of the CIA? The NSA? The DNI? Or maybe some new agency he hadn't even heard about before? It could explain why a high ranking Naval officer was seemingly in charge of the complex . . . or did it?

There was something about all of this that he was overlooking. He was certain of it, but he couldn't put his thumb on it yet.

What made it worse was the fact that he was being held against his will. Sure, they kept trying to claim that he wasn't a prisoner or under arrest, but it sure in the heck felt like he was. If he wasn't a prisoner, why did they remove his clothes and put him in this awfully revealing outfit? It wasn't like he didn't keep himself fit or anything, but he didn't need his body betraying him and revealing what he really thought when interacting with a beautiful woman. And tight, one-piece white body suit would show everything, and then some.

And, why was his memory filled with more holes than a slab of swiss cheese? Some of the holes were filling in, but others seemed . . . no, more like felt like the military had done a bombing run inside his head. He had been drugged in the past, and knew what it felt like. He knew how, in the initial stages while it wore off, how sometimes one's mind could be filled with holes . . . but it was often a side effect from the drug. But here, he had been awake and alert for some time . . . far more alert and coherent than he should have been if he had been drugged, even from the first second after regaining consciousness . . . yet he had so many gaps in his memory, he couldn't even begin to count.

There was a puzzle here. If Hannibal had been with him, he would have said how certain he was of it due to all of the little pieces everywhere. But, nothing was fitting together to give him a big picture . . .

He sat up on the examination table as he heard the hiss of one of the doors opening. He wasn't sure who was walking in, but he wanted to be ready for them, just in case. He didn't know if it was going to be that shrink, Dr. Beeks, or even Admiral Calavicci. In a way, if it was one of them, he planned on asking some more questions and he wasn't about to settle for any more of that top secret garbage. He needed answers.

A beautiful female with 2-inch high heels and curly red hair walked into the Waiting Room. She wore a silver jacket, and a shimmering blue dress that ended at mid-thigh, showing off her shapely legs. She had a clipboard in one had that appeared to have some kind of a keypad attached to it. Her dark brown eyes glanced over to him for a moment before she made her way to a corner of the room where she needed to work.

Face's blue eyes studied every curve of the woman, from the moment she entered the Waiting Room, to when they made eye contact, and then when she walked over to a wall and squat down a bit before touching a spot on it. A hidden panel, perhaps? But, that movement was enough to send him over the edge.. Her outfit, which was already tight, accentuated her shapely rear end and left very little to the imagination. Her beauty captivated him, causing him to sigh happily as he remarked, "Now I know I must be in heaven."

She immediately turned to look at him, before standing up. Obviously, she had overheard the remark, and wasn't so much startled by what was said, versus the fact that the person in the Waiting Room spoke to her. Just like it was with Verbena Beeks, the Visitor looked like Dr. Samuel Beckett, her boss. From what she had recalled prior to when he started Leaping around in time, Dr. Beckett wasn't a womanizer at all, nor did he ever attempt to charm anyone of the opposite gender. The real Sam Beckett had eyes only for one woman . . . Donna Elesee.

"Excuse me?" she asked, just to make sure that she had heard that remark correctly. Her voice was light and somewhat nasally, but carried the intonations of a stereotypical California valley girl.

A small grin crept across Face's countenance as he realized that he had just taken the bait. Now, like a seasoned fisherman that he was . . . a fisher of women . . . it was time to lure her in. He immediately turned on the charm and flashed her a huge smile as he commented, "I was just wondering what a beautiful woman like you is doing in a place like this."

She tried hard not to blush, although the comment made her think of how Dr. Beckett acted after his simo-Leap with Al. A bit of Al's lecherous side remained with Dr. Beckett, so he flirted with her a bit just as Al did. But Al . . . her Al . . . was normal and had been for some time now, so the chances of any residual effects remaining in whoever occupied the aura of Dr. Beckett was negligible.

At least that was what she was told, until her encounter with this individual . . .

She readjusted her hold on the clipboard, holding it in front of her as she glanced at the information. Right now, that was the only thing . . . figuratively speaking . . . separating the two of them besides physical distance and the clothing they wore. Using her free hand, she flipped some of her longer hair off her shoulder as she responded, "I work here." The tone of her voice made it clear that she wasn't trying to be interested in him.

"What a shame . . ." Face sighed. He was obviously disappointed, but he wasn't about to give up so easily. He knew the way into a woman's heart, and since she was a total knock out, he wasn't going to let this opportunity pass him by, no matter where he was. Besides, a little companionship when one was all alone never really hurt. Again he flashed her a charming smile as he inquired, "Soooo . . . by what name do I call this vision of loveliness standing in front of me?"

This time, she couldn't hide the reaction as her face flushed at the newest comment he levied upon her. She never had someone pay her such compliments before. Sure, Al was very sweet to her, but this seemed to go far above and beyond. It made it difficult for her to know how exactly to deal with it . . . especially from someone who looked exactly like her boss. There was a slight bit of hesitation in her voice as she gently revealed, "Dr. Tina Martinez-O'Farrell."  
"Ah, Tina . . . such a lovely name," he stated almost as if drinking in the sound of her entire name like it was an expensive perfume. Adding a high level of appreciation into the tone of his voice, he continued, "And a doctor as well! What man wouldn't love to be given a physical by someone as gorgeous as you . . ."

There was something about this guy that kind of made her glad that she was over on this side of the room, and he hadn't gotten up from the examination table. He was a little bit too slick with how heavily he was laying on the compliments, and that smile . . . if she had been able to see his real face, she may have thought otherwise . . . but seeing it coming from her boss, that smile made her think of her pet crocodile. Still, he was trying to come across as being a nice guy, so what harm could there be in that?

"I hate to disappoint you, but I'm a pulse communication technician," she corrected him, somewhat apologetically. There was a slight look of confusion on his face, which meant that she had finally thrown him off guard. Maybe his IQ wasn't that high, and he was trying to use his charm to compensate. "That's a fancy term for being a computer scientist."

"Ah, a pulse communications technician. Sounds absolutely . . . pulsating," Templeton noted, trying to play off the title of her position a bit with his response. The revelation of her job stunned him, throwing him off kilter a bit, since most women that he knew were medical doctors. He had never met a female doctor before who didn't hold a medical degree. But, based on how she responded, he was close to winning her over. He wasn't about to give up now. "How about dinner, then? This place isn't as fancy as Spaggio, but we could still . . . make it romantic. A little candlelight, some soft music, dim the lights a bit, champagne on ice, and a masterful four course meal as we get to know each other a bit better."

Tina was thoroughly impressed by the Leapee's tenacity and determination. Not too many people would keep at it, even though her answers clearly weren't what he had may have originally expected. "I've already got dinner plans tonight with Al," she pointed out, but stopped short at revealing that she was seeing Al and intimate with him. She couldn't with how sweet this guy was trying to be . . . trying being the operative word. He at least deserved a chance.

Face wasn't sure who this Al was and he hoped that whoever it turned out to be wasn't a boyfriend, much less a jealous one. He likely should have asked about the hyphenated last name as well, but he was sure determined to wine and dine this beautiful redhead if he could get a chance. It was time to take it to the next level. "Well, since it looks like I'm going to be stuck here for a while, how about tomorrow night? It does get kind of lonely in here," he mentioned, hoping that the old 'wounded raccoon' play would tug at her heartstrings.

She paused for a moment, bringing her other hand around to clutch her clipboard tightly against her with both of her hands. She thought about his offer, and honestly she did feel sorry for him based on what he just mentioned. She had never visited one of the Leapees before in the Waiting Room, but if they were in here for hours on end, it likely could get pretty lonely. Relenting, she told him, "Okay, tomorrow will be fine."

The smile on his face returned brightly as he realized he had just struck gold. "Wonderful! Now, I just have to figure out how to arrange it . . ." he trailed off, the smile on his face quickly falling as he hadn't thought of that before even asking her for a dinner date. He was just so entranced by her beauty that he did what just came naturally for him.

This time, it was Tina's turn to smile. In a way, he kind of reminded her of Al with how sometimes he went into things head first without thinking things through. Of course, it made their love life quite interesting so she had no complaints about that at all. "Since you're a little . . . tied up . . . I could take care of that," she offered.

His face remained stoic, showing a great deal of concern as he countered, "Are you sure? I mean, I don't exactly have connections here, but I wouldn't want to inconvenience anyone . . ." He almost felt like he could just about kick himself right now with not thinking things through like he normally would have, but if he hadn't had the holes in his memory he likely would have done that long before even thinking about asking her. There was the shrink that he could ask, but he doubted that she'd even agree to something like what he and Tina were going to do.

"I'm sure," Tina responded, still smiling. She didn't expect him to be all worried about something as trivial as a dinner date, so that really spoke volumes of the type of guy he was. Maybe, when she was done here, she'd see if Ziggy could help her find a picture of what he looked like . . . well, before he Leaped. It would be interesting to get some idea of who resided underneath the aura. But, in order to get some idea of what he looked like, she'd need to get his name . . . something that he hadn't revealed just yet.

Their eyes locked for a moment, even though neither one had closed the distance between them. As she searched his eyes, almost as if trying to look into his very soul, the Pulse Communications Technician realized that this was the perfect time to get the information she needed. "Um . . . you know, I don't even know your name," she admitted.

He smiled at her again . . . this time a gentle, genuine smile, and not one filled with charm. "It's Templeton Peck . . . although my friends call me Face," he responded gently, hoping that this was going to be the start of something very special between the two of them.

Tina gave him another smile, and decided that it was best to get back to work before anything else could happen. With how he charmed her into having dinner with him tomorrow, she didn't want to wait around and see what else he'd be able to talk her into doing. Tomorrow night, she'd be better prepared and on her guard, but for now, it was best that she got out of Dodge while she could. "I hate to do this, but I need to go," she said somewhat sadly. "I have to get back to work."

Getting up off the table, Face walked over to Tina. He took one of her hands within his, and then gently placed a kiss upon her knuckles. "Until tomorrow night then . . . lovely Tina," he said gently.

After he kissed her hand, she pulled it away from his hands . . . but only after lingering for just a moment. She didn't expect that, and it was a very sweet gesture. It reminded her of the first time that Al had met her, and offered to treat her to dinner . . . and ultimately what led them to fall in love with each other. Pressing a button on keypad attached to the clipboard, the door to the Waiting Room opened. She exited out of it, leaving Templeton Peck inside with his thoughts . . .

* * *

OBSERVATION AREA

PROJECT QUANTUM LEAP

Donna Elesee stood at the one-way window that allowed her to watch the Visitor in the Waiting Room, quietly observing the man inside who bore the image of her husband, Samuel Beckett. It was always so surreal to be here, watching the Visitor, and hear the different dialects, vocal inflections and even mannerisms that were so different from that of Sam.

Yet, even when standing there, she felt like she was somehow helping . . . connecting to her husband, who was somewhere in the past, and saving the lives of others. That was the one thing that she had admired about Sam. Throughout all of these, the ups and downs associated with Leaping around in time, and the lives of those that he entered into for a while, he had shown incredible strength to continue and not give up. He believed in the essence of the human spirit, and that nothing was impossible to overcome, no matter how dismal things may look at some point.

It was, in a word, inspiring.

She reached up with a hand and unconsciously brushed one of her loose strands of hair behind her ear as she continued to gaze through the window. She had been very tempted, once she had read the info Al had gathered, to go in and talk to the Leapee. She found it fascinating that Sam had Leaped into someone that Al knew, and had to work to save other men that Al was also familiar with. As she had quickly learned around here, fate could be a funny thing . . .

Samantha Josephine Fuller walked up to stand next to Dr. Elesee, also taking a few moments to watch the Visitor. Ever since Donna found out about Sami Jo, and the fact that she was Sam's daughter, she reached out to the young woman and welcomed her as part of the family in a way that she knew that Sam would have wanted. Neither one had known about her true parentage at first when Sami Jo had started working at the Project, but once the truth came out a bond was forged between the two of them . . . but not until after Sami Jo gone through a rough patch.

Sami Jo herself was very much like Sam, and reminded Donna of her husband regularly. She had an extremely bright mind and an inquisitive nature that prompted her to explore . . . even if it was in Ziggy's programming. She had a hard past, especially after seeing some of the events that took place around the witch hunt for her mother, but she had recalled a critical memory that proved her innocence and saved her life.

And in so doing, she also saved her own in the process . . . but not without help from her father, as she came to learn later in life after joining Project Quantum Leap.

When she had learned the truth, it had practically turned her whole world upside down. She had gone through all of the classic emotions associated with such a revelation . . . confusion, shock, denial, anger, remorse. Remorse was an emotion that she hadn't expected she'd endure, but in a way she had a right to be remorseful, simply because of the fact that the truth had been kept from her for so long and by the time she found out, her biological father was already Leaping around in time, so she never really had a chance to meet him . . . the real him . . . and get to know him like she wanted.

Al and Donna . . . they were both incredibly supportive throughout all of the stages of emotions she experienced with learning the truth, far more than they should have been. Al clearly felt guilty about not telling Donna and Sami Jo about it, but ultimately one emotion came shining through. One she hadn't expected at all, even after the truth came out.

Love . . .

If anything, Donna had a right to be angry with Sam . . . and even direct that anger at Sami Jo . . . due to the fact that his actions resulted in a child being conceived with another woman while he was still married to Dr. Elesee. Yet, she was extremely understanding and showed Sami Jo nothing but kindness and love, welcoming her as part of the family almost as if she had been part of it all along.

Sami Jo was grateful for that, because it helped to see her through, even though she didn't accept it at first. It helped her to see that, no matter what, she had a family who loved and deeply cared about her . . . that would stand by her side, help her and support her, no matter what she was going through. And that was something that she would never want to trade for anything else in the whole world.

She joined Donna in looking through the observation glass at the Visitor in the Waiting Room . . . the person who, for all practical purposes, looked like Dr. Samuel Beckett. They both just stood there in silence, observing the man who had just been laying there until Tina walked in to do a bit of work. As they overheard the remark that came from the Leapee toward the Pulse Communication Technician, Sami Jo decided to break the silence between the two of them by asking, "Amazing, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is," Donna mused quietly as she continued to look through the glass. The person inside looked like her husband, but certainly acted nothing like him . . . at least not with what she had seen so far. "It's always fascinating to observe the Visitor and see just how different they are from Sam."

"Or how much they are the same," Sami Jo countered, noting a few movements that reminded her of her father . . . or at least what she remembered of him when he had Leaped into Larry Stanton III. During the time that the lawyer had been assigned to help her mother, she recalled the conversations she had with him, and how kind and gentle he was. She even remembered talking about the novel Brigadoon, which dealt with time travel, which turned out to be not only her favorite, but Sam's as well. "Do you know much about who Sam Leaped into?"

Donna still found it slightly odd that, even though Sami Jo learned the truth that Sam Beckett was her father, she still referred to him by his name and not as 'father.' Then again too, she grew up with not knowing the truth and believing that a police officer, Will Kinman, who had been in love with her mother Abigail and ran off shortly after she had become pregnant, had been her father. But, since she hadn't actually met Sam in person, at least the way that would have allowed her to have gotten to know Dr. Beckett, it was likely that she didn't feel comfortable referring to him in such a familiar term. If he ever returned home, maybe things could change . . . but until that time, she would respect Sami Jo's decision.

"I read the report from Al and Verbena. It seems that Sam has Leaped into 1st Lieutenant Templeton Peck, a con man who is a member of a military unit that was on the run for a crime they committed in Vietnam. They do a lot of work to help out others in need," Donna started to mention, pausing for a moment. The next bit of information was pretty stunning when she found out, but it still needed to be shared. "It also seems that Al knows our Visitor."

Sami Jo was stunned by this news, and turned to look at Donna. There were some Leaps, as she had come to learn, which ultimately had an impact on various members of the Project, or even on the Project itself. The one that involved Senator Diane McBride was just one example of that, with how the Leap that impacted her life ultimately helped to save the funding for the Project. Of course, there were many more that didn't affect the project, but for the ones that did, it was always fascinating to learn of the ones that did and how it changed things.

"Al knows him?" Sami Jo parroted, turning the statement into a question. This development was still something that drove her curiosity since there was so much that could happen. "How does Al know him?"

Donna looked to Sami Jo and nodded an affirmative. Even she had been a bit surprised by the news that Admiral Calavicci knew the person in the Waiting Room. "Apparently, they were held at the same POW camp at Cham Hoi in Vietnam," she revealed.

Dr. Beckett's daughter was clearly stunned by this news. She knew that Al Calavicci had been in Vietnam, and had even been a POW, but to have been held at the same POW camp where the Visitor was . . . it had to have been more than just a coincidence. Did this Leap perhaps have something to do with Al, even indirectly? Only time would tell, but there was potential implication from all of this that she even shuddered to think about, yet needed to be asked, "Has our Visitor recognized Al yet?"

Donna shook her head, her loose strands of dark hair flowing around her shoulders gracefully. "Not yet, but as the holes in his memory fills, it's only a matter of time before he does. Bena's been working with him, so hopefully it won't be as much of a shock in case he does finally recognize Al," she explained.

What was left unspoken between the two women, and was a major concern, was what were to happen once the Leapee returned to his own time. How much would he remember of the people here in the future? How much would he remember of the Project, or his stay? How much would he remember of what was said to him? Would he remember everything, or just a little? And if he remembered everything, would he reveal that information to his friends, much less anyone else that would listen?

Silence filled the air for a moment as they each contemplated what could possibly happen if the Visitor remembered what happened to him here once he returned to his own time, as well as how it could impact the Project as well. If word got out, even before the Project was created, it could jeopardize all of the hard work . . . not to mention all of the history over the years that Sam had managed to fix, and the lives that he saved. But, then again, who would believe such tales coming from a fugitive on the run?

The silence was broken when Sami Jo decided to ask, out of curiosity, "Have you gone in there to talk to him yet?"

Donna didn't move, but returned her gaze to what was playing out in the Waiting Room as they heard the Visitor try to hit on Tina by offering a romantic dinner. She had to try hard not to giggle at that, not sure how he was going to manage to pull off such a feat considering his current confinement . . . unless he had a way of sweet talking others into getting him what he needed to make such a dinner possible. Considering what was in the file, she wouldn't put anything past him at this point.

Turning back to Sami Jo, Dr. Elesee noted, "Not yet, but as you can see, he seems to be a bit of a lady's man. Since regaining consciousness, he's hit on two nurses, and three different staff members, not including Tina."

Dr. Fuller stifled a laugh as she also returned her gaze to the Leapee. "Well, it looks like Tina may be entertaining whatever idea he's proposing," she observed. She thought about things for a moment before adding, "I hope Al doesn't get upset when he finds out. You know how much he loves Tina."

Donna immediately thought of Al's special surprise for Tina at one of her birthday parties, where he actually popped out of a huge cake wearing nothing but boxer shorts. That was one wild party, if she remembered right, although it also happened to take place during one of Sam's many Leaps. "Yeah, and he sure goes out of his way to show it too. But, if I know Tina, she'll keep it purely professional with our Visitor. He does look like Sam, and I don't think she'd try to make the moves on someone that looks like her boss. Besides, she's only got eyes for Al . . ."

"Don't forget about Gooshie," Sami Jo interjected, pointing out an obvious fact. There were a couple of occasions where Tina was cheating on Al with the head programmer for the whole Project. Al knew about one time, but there was a second that he didn't know about. Thankfully he had kept his temper in check and didn't take it out on Gooshie . . . and when Tina got back together with Al, things were right as rain again.

As Dr. Donna Elesee thought about it, the more she began to realize that Tina may be in over her head when it came to a dinner date with the Visitor . . .


End file.
